We must give thanks for the magic  

The cosmos made happen:

To swim in stardust and arise 

From the tidal rivers of the womb,

To give up the umbilicus and awake

In the tributaries of the veins, 

Wander in the archway of trees, 

The filigree of forest, and suckle

At Mother’s breast. For magic it is

To take nourishment from the wordless

History of earth, the ceaseless memory

Of the sea, the heaving of volcanoes,

The typhoons and tsunamis of the Pacific;

The sprouting of pale tendrils,

The grains ripening in the paddies.

And magic it is for the clouds to part,

The rain to slake the thirst of all bark

And foliage, for the deer to drink

From the pond, the macaw to spread

Its colors in the wind, the hornbill

In its shrill baritone to call from the deep

Woods, the shrike to harvest its small 

Prey of worms and moths impaled

On a thorn, the thorn natural in the branch,

Pointed without hate, as the human

Bows in stardust, in prayer and harvest, 

In the waning of his hate, without

The waste of war, even with history’s grief:

In the advent of joy and hope,

As the cobwebs catch the dew, 

As the hunter’s moon sets on the lake,

At the hour of our birth, at the hour of magic.

 

 

Marne Kilates

5 November 2021