Despite
what our mothers whispered
into our slumber lonesome ears
on dulcet summer evenings,
there is no magic in the moonlight.
The forlorn ululation of coyotes
amidst the bristlecone pine, yes.
The rumble and shush of trucks
barreling down I-70 to strange towns
and stranger dreams, yes.
The barks of dogs, the sweat of dew,
the hollow passions of love well pretended,
the hatching of million dollar plots
that wilt in the first pink of day.
Yes, yes, yes and yes.
But no magic.
The lips of God remain still,
motionless as mountaintops,
impenetrable as buttresses,
as mystics go wonderfully mad.
Magic is just another word
for sleight of hand.
Stories we tell ourselves
so we can share the winsome
awe of the rose’s first budding
at the cuddle and caress of Spring.
Without such lies,
Duct tape and pixie dust
Are all that hold this heart
together.
Filed under: Poetry
