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the magus :: c. dale young

by on March 18, 2015

The pearls, mere reminders.
The ocean’s rapid recoil, a signal.
The gulls appeared enormous

in that way only things from above can—
such is presentation of the sudden.
If only this were worthy of a frame,

the wooden gesture announcing
a moment past were cherished.
But it was too late for that, too late

to answer the surf’s anxious Why?
too late to decline the continuous life
he had resigned himself, turning

away from the grave, that plot
being too familiar to so many.
Of course immortality had its price:

first his staff he had taped back together,
then the sleeves of his robe
he had reclaimed from the depths, then

the magic leached nightly from his fingertips
so that now his incantation for a storm
brought only a slight breeze,

a quick sun shower that frightened
only the flowers struggling in the salt air.
Now, showing his centuries, he insists:

This is the wind out of which I bring clouds.
These are my hands that gnarled though they be
when lifted to the sky bring rain.


From → poems

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