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
