I trail the wake of your light into the coffee shop
knowing you are magic.
Liquid grace splits the air apart for you to move through.
The Master of Ceremonies, The Permission Grantor,
The King, The Jester, The Clown – all arrive.
The Top-Hat Ringmaster of Delight performs
As each mask glides from page to face to page again,
a conjunctive union of deft fingers and sharp mind.
The Magician with a Hat Not-A-Hat and a Rabbit
Not-A-Rabbit. And Words-Not-Words shift-shape
into meaning, transmute into breathing,
take flight like Doves soaring
above the Pleasant Silver-Haired Lady of Style
and the husband she tells to sit down. Listen.
But the call of the Dove and its gentle cooing
is not a language his ears were built to hear.
This birdsong rolls into form into fountains gushing
a washing-water of repentance and recollection
that the Lady Patron of Renowned Repetition hopes
she can capture in a box, but the Fountain of Youth
remains a mystery and a type of water that boxes cannot carry.
On we go in this way until a shy sparkle of translucent blue truth
In the half-lid drop-gaze smile within the masking shimmers.
A heart-beat, heart-light, soul-spark knowing of recognition comes.