Enchantment

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 Enchantment 

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She sings upon herself,

bids welcome      smells of mint

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By night she’s a silver-leafed

silhouette     the invisible breeze,

damp soil skin underfoot.

She needs no moon,

For her, an owl hoots in the dark.

From her cup arises the steam of 

Potential, with a pinch of Fear.

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By day, Mischief fills her

sly mouth     the flooded gates

of love, surprise, guffaws

A murder of crows laughing across

morning skies that never break

how great the storm

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When Sadness and Anger

and odious Jealousy arise

Enchantment pours them a cup of tea

and listens      until everyone is ready

to play dolls again, 

or drawing class, or delight

in the click of bright plastic heels

across tile floors

of every hue.

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In Enchantment, Joy

and Danger flirt until she’s

left breathless at her own strength

of living. Even then, when all she can possibly

do is collapse     back upon sands, 

she still delights to listen to the

sea-song of waves, to pick out

pirate ships, or bunnies

in every set of passing clouds.

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