Claire Everett

Wand

autumn starlings
like so many questions
and then the hush . . .
he says the singing tree
breathed out a cloud

The last of the children. Must we wait now for the next of our line? It's not as if we learn the charm by rote. It is our birthright, imprinted on our young and tender selves. How easily we forget the words. And with them the secret to where the magic lies.

strings of light
keeping time with my pulse
oh virtuoso!
the notion I'm privy
to a sunflower's voice . . .