Children ask me "Do you believe in magic?"

They already know the answer, but it does them no harm to hear it over and over.

Yes.

I believe in a summer storm spending itself over the water,

Forks of light ripping through the sky, leaving the world scrubbed and the air perfumed with salt.

I believe in the last notes of a violin, played alone, when the only light comes from a crescent moon, a secret smile for the player who doesn't know anyone heard him.

I believe in rubbing spices between my hands so the fragrance floats into the pot, an offering, a bow I make to the seeds and flowers which scent the walls of my kitchen.

I believe in the crackle of peppers strung over a fire to dry,

And in the unhurried laughter of grandmothers.

"Yes, but do you believe in magic?"

You're not listening.

I believe in the sudden sunburst of a goldfinch, and in the tree outside my window,

Trash-tree they call it, Gone in thirty years.

But it's the only tree I've got, so it's treasure-tree to me.

I believe in the truths people whisper to each other,

The kind of beautiful secrets that mean love instead of lies.

I believe in songs murmured when the sun is setting, songs shot through with the tears that spring up without knowing why.

"But what about magic?"

What have I been saying?

There is no magic without us.

In your listening, your seeing,

In your stories, surely you see by now that's where the magic lives.