​(For Tara)   

     Magic
is exploring a neighborhood
park at midnight
 
breathing the forbidden
post-curfew air, whirling
in fog between honey locusts
 
playing tag with our secrets
we hide-and-seek
hoping to be found

swinging high―
so high the stars are
blotted out by our bare toes
 
not knowing where or why
not caring who or how
embracing darkness's gift

uncertainly facing each other
round and round
the merry-go-round
 
we laugh fumbling thru
     Eternity
is to feel
 
the thing least expected
made real:
the surprise of flesh, 

of love that comes suddenly
the way lawn sprinklers
spring to life, startling us

we shout, fresh-cut grass
clinging to our ankles, holding
     Joy

is a sleight of hand,
awakening to the smell
of sourdough pancakes

sitting on kitchen stools
watching each other
sprinkle chocolate chips

onto our griddle cakes
     is God
whispering in our ears at midnight,
​
     “Wake up, Child,
     the park
     awaits.”