Magic

a poem by Roger B Rueda

Is it the belief of our heart,
of the mind's eye,
or of the delight
that we bring
to the world?
Is it magical
to sense a spirit
on other people?
Now and again I am
at a seaside
beyond belief,
watching
a piece of life
like a tree, sparkling,
whispering
its secrets,
or a butterfly,
flittering
from blossom
to blossom,
every so often pausing
to have nectar
or rest its wings.
Are these magic
flashes,
not being a piece
of the world, but
more like
being a piece
of glory, and
I could have
my home
there undyingly,
colourful
chitin shells
entertaining
the eye and
delighting
my soul?
Is it a viaduct
stuck between
the substantial
and the hidden?
This bound
slouches
itself in awfully bare ways.