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.