The Magic Man

It’s time to call

the Magic Man.

The leaves are on

the ground again.

The world bends to

his sleight of hand

and all the dead

come back again.

 

Memory fades,

the pain abates,

the world becomes

brown and grey.

Call on the Magic Man

to play

a trick on you

and it can change.

 

The mind delights

so childishly

at being shown

that it can be

free as a bird,

high as a tree,

up above all

the entropy.

 

Sometimes we have

to trick our minds

to admit things

that we deny.

That Magic Man

he does abide

in worlds beyond

the other side.

 

When the leaves turn,

he wakes the mind,

to turn the end

into a kind

of new beginning

realized,

before the snow

has crystallized.

 

Oh, Magic Man

your slight of hand;

come change our world

around again.

So we don’t lose

sight of the plan.

Delight in night,

our skeletons.

 

Let us find mirth

in shorter days

and comfort in

the many layers

that we put on

against the cold;

come to us,

Magic Man of old.

 

Until the winter’s

white affair,

we need to laugh,

we’ll need a scare

to show us we’re

alive to bear,

on into

the coming year.

 

HG -2017

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