The magic was
light through petal glass--
Easter basket strewn on grass,
a clutch of modest lamps,
crocus cups of sunshine.
The magic was
the daffodils alight,
the confluence of
fragile flower skin
and glory.
The magic is
the inner opening,
rejection of
the tight, dark place's
cocooning bud,
folded in, layer on layer
against itself like a preborn,
knees and arms
tucked tight to chest.
The magic is
the quiet reception
of sunshine.
I especially love the five-or-so lines beginning "The magic is/ the inner opening[.]"
ReplyDeleteHere's to the quiet reception of sunshine (and I feel as graced reading these poems as the flower does receiving that aforesaid sunlight!)!