she changed her child’s body for a woman’s,
changing shape, echoing the moon’s dance with her blood,
a wild and wondrous thing.
is that not magic?
she walks into a room, without a word,
and men young and old look up,
suddenly alert as startled bucks.
is that not magic?
she grew a new life under her ribs,
out of nothing, nearly
and rich milk to feed it, and it thrives.
is that not magic?
she soothes children and animals,
banishes sorrow and fear
with a touch and a murmur.
is that not magic?
she moves among the grass and trees,
finding food, finding medicine.
is that not magic?
she brews and bakes and churns
one thing into another
barley into beer, wheat into bread, cream into butter.
is that not magic?
she wraps wool about a weighted stick, drops and pulls,
making thread to weave into warmth.
is that not magic?
she hears her household in the night hours
wakeful elders, hungry babies, amorous husbands,
and leaves her sleep and dreams to be with them.
is that not magic?
she dances, shimmying her hips,
shaking her shoulders, swinging her hair,
and all of nature awakens.
is that not magic?
she takes a handful of this, a scattering of that,
from the not-much of her pantry, cooking a daily feast.
is that not magic?
she knows that what she knows
is worth all the world, though the world takes no notice,
and offers it anyway.
is that not magic?
