And the magic stays within her.
Nesting in her ardent spirit,
throbbing in her veins.
It shows up in her tangled mane,
her sunny smile, the sparkle in her eyes.
It’s in her yearning for the evening sun, her walks under the stars and her dance rituals with the wind.
Her magic lives in the corner of her
beautiful broken heart
when she mingles with the fireflies in the woods.
It’s in the way she lays awake,
robed with autumn leaves
under the breath of the moon.
How she hums her prayers in darkness.
Magic is her love and dreams.
Magic is in her flawed heart and scarred soul.
Magic lives in the very fabric of her true self.