of leaving and small magic

in the woods and by the shore i stumbled upon it. that's what we all seek in places- that small magic. to feel something apart from cars and grocery stores. in a field surrounded by puffy dandelions, we are all clinging. about to take flight into that northerly breeze. we can feel the magic, or begin to feel like we know something of it. from mountains to plains to the lake i wandered here and learned of it, though it was small. now i can conjure it when the sun slants this way and the dandelions sway. i can carry it in this small pouch at my hip. i can carry lilacs and paper scraps to help keep it alive. i will beckon to it at the perfect time. here, off of lonely 13 and 2, flapping pigeons and a splintered bench and sweeping sunlight hint at it.

the fat robins remind me that the snow is at bay and the bay reminds me of the day i arrived: small and afraid of the isolation. i skated the icy highways while he was away. while i was left here to make my own heat. in a kitchen too small for my mixer. in a town just vast enough for my footprints. to make it my own was my journey.i wandered to the market for strawberries and to the bench by the bay for sunsets.sunsets and ice roads in turn.

in the light of a sunday June glow i have found my tears. it is magic after all. what canvased my heart is beginning to tear and the skin underneath the artwork is smooth and plain. the indians and ice and insensitivities somehow served me well. housewives pot marigolds and herbs tonight, rushing slightly to keep up with the sinking sun. watching me with my windy hair and concealed stories, they glance my way here and there. their children will dance along with me down the sidewalk. curious as to why i am the same age as their potting mothers, yet spinning to their tune. it is safe here and my path is worn. fate is pushing me to a wider road. sidewalk chalk and spray paint where the grass pushes it's way through the concrete. soon all will be strangers to my feet.

to stay is to plateau. to leave is to grow. i teeter, playing this game, rolling dice of my own desires. swinging madly back and forth in the quiet of June.the jungle is only a playground game for me here and so now i spin atop the merry-go-round and hope to be propelled to greener lawns. it is my turn to leave. i can tell you something of leaving and the nervous un-choices..what stories are they? if not fairytales, they are, at least, my own.