Climbing down the weedy, rocky hill in the dark, through the oldest hour of the year, you found a chair out of nowhere to sit on. I'll never understand how you manage these small magics while I, moonless, am struggling just to see.
I suspect you were born with magic in your blood, an ancient pine hill gypsy singing magic that has people wondering where you came from - Iran, Turkey, Brazil? They never get it right. You came from a tiny mystic country beneath the fog; you came from the dance of a star. Sometimes I imagine the dusky, barefoot goddess who must have led you to me, the moist earth mother, the sea-voiced queen. Her thighs the mountains, her belly the rolling hills, her throat the roads, of the world between that tiny country and my tinier one; her song the way to go. Why to me, though - that is the mystery. I wish I could tie a moon to my wrist, so I could see it more clearly. I wish Christ would hold his lantern high for me, Arianrhod spin a constellation for me, so I could see.
Then again, there is magic in this dark mystery.