Your magick is this:
           kindness and shadow,
fireflies of hope
                       burning like embers—
           everything you touch
signs a raven song, a fairytale,
           a reminder that love
finds us even in the labyrinth,
or off the forest path,
           or through the garden gate,
beyond bramble
           or tower—
      
you sing. And in that singing,
      
a story grows with bold roots,
an offering
           of your own heartbeat,
soul-struck and wild
and without pretense—
           this is your magick,
           
word after word, this spellwork
           has saved,
has rescued,
                       has restored,
has given mirror and hand
           when it was needed most,
when the storms have come
                       to lost ships,
when the wolves have come
                       to the door,
when grief has come
                       to stay without warning—
      
you became lighthouse,
and huntsman,
and new dawn,
           a gift offered
without the question of repayment.
      
How do I say thank you
           for the ways you soothed my heart
in secret, again and again,
           holding it while it was howling,
until it repaired itself,
until I remembered how to speak my own name?
      
Your magick is this:
           softness,
the deep velvet of kindness,
the gentle of hands,
                       mouth
           singing, singing, singing—
a kiss to unravel
           the memories
of all the old gods, of all the old monsters,
           heart given as shield,
as familiar as the pages
                       of a well-loved book,
a promise
           between souls,
yours and mine
                       that found each other
here in the dark.

© 2024 Ali Trotta