it's been a long time that i think
i've enjoyed being but a
figment
of people's imaginations

a flame in a crisp, dry field
a smirking ghost among the holly
wholly unpredictable
       and fantastically fickle
riding in on the hum of mystery
      pointing all fingers to the magic of the moment,
baring it all through the width of my eye,
and slipping away before the spell can subside.

no contact, no photograph, no proof,
or poem or postcard,
just an agent of the ethers,
a friendly reminder of the  great riddle.

i feel quite differently now though..
oh, i've visited the ocean,
i've taken to the stars,
     i've immersed myself in the invisible
and now my body wants to be right where we are.

magic is not a drink to binge
for fear of the time evading.
it's not a wildfire that knows no end
or a phantom that needs no friend.

it can be trusted and real.
it can look and smell human,
toting human technologies,
and smoking modern day cigarettes.

it can plan its day by the clock,
jog alongside the flock,
and, most importantly, it can leave its print.
it can close encounters with a firm grin. it can leave and come back again.

it can leave such big footprints that life grows from the cracks in its quake.