Magic exists because we conjure it.

Here’s to the conjurer.

Here’s to the writer-reader, the Right

Reverend Love Binder who rests

on raw silken cushions,

ticked and tufted, hued by prisms.

Dog sentries sit watch, visible

by refraction of star dust.

 

Magic is born because we birth it.

Here’s to the mother.

Here’s to the nature nurturer, the Rosy

Ranger of Fear-Free Forests. She guides,

she raises fist high with steady lantern

tender yellow glowing – showing.

Summoning soft creatures–

instincts high in focused reconnaissance.

 

Magic grows because we feed it.

Here’s to the chef.

Here’s to the potion master, the Abbess

of the Great Feast of Corpus Self. Selfless

selfness, as the Lamas say, this is the way.

Mulled in life-liquid within, steep away.

Make merry the day with blood wine as

then will float cerebral vessels on the half-swell.

 

Magic lives because we insist.

Here’s to magicians.

Here’s to abracadandylions, untamers

of hungry beasts, preservers of the Keep.

Where leaded light windows, stab soul shrines,

cloister searchers and shiners of stained

glass confines. Glass breaks. Yet

heated and honed, it reshapes anew.