The Nature of Magic
The thing is, I never want to leave.
It does not matter where I travel,
I never want to leave.
It has nothing to do with not loving home.
I love my home. The familiarness of it,
the sanctuary of love it has become.
But somehow, I find myself surrounded by magic
where ever I go. Small towns. Foreign lands.
Even in the traveling, one place to another.
And magic, once found, you cling to.
And magic, once found, disappears.
It is the nature of magic, it disappears
and appears again.
It appears again.
About this poem
I was talking to a young woman at the Second Choice Diner this morning who has just come back from Hawaii. We spoke of something we have in common – never wanting to leave places we visit. It’s not an indictment of home. It’s just a love of where we are and wanting to cling to the magic of place.
A poem about that. A poem about refining love. A poem about refining the best in ourselves. You know me, poems are never about just one thing.
PS: The picture was taken in Pompei. I didn’t want to leave there either.