A Magazine of Many Arts

Hester J. Rook

Still yourself;
the moment you stop moving
the world is only breeze and your own soft breath.
Hush
not even the insects sing out here.
The sleeping giants roll across the sky and when
it rains the space before them pearls
with fishtailed light.
This is a spell place,
here, among the thumbprint birds
the damp sheen rising from the hills.
So, love, make your spell;
plant ferrets’ teeth into the bank - there,
push them deep
feel their edges sharp against your fingertips,
push, til the land rises up to meet your palm.
Draw out the shapes in the wet earth
you know the ones - you chose this calling, after all.
Pause and bless the moss with your gold-brown gaze
feel it quiver and sigh at your attention.  Stand
your own two feet in the stream and let the water bathe your soles
(who said a spell needed anything but your own charms, your own
gentle purpose).
There.  Pick the wildflower and slip it behind
your light-warmed ear.  It is done.
Let the giants sleep and your feet walk you home.