It stirs beneath the quiet dust,
In whispered dreams, in hearts that trust—
Not tricks of hand, nor smoke and flare,
But ancient truths that fill the air.
It hums in words we dare not speak,
In forests deep, on mountain peaks.
It sparks in eyes that see the whole
Of what is hidden in the soul.
It dances in the painter’s brush,
The lullaby, the blushing hush
Of first hello or last goodbye—
A force unseen, but flying high.
It bends the rules, unknots the thread,
Wakes voices thought forever dead.
It’s in the hope that still remains
When all is loss and love is pain.
It’s not in spells or crystal glass,
But in the moments that we pass
A kindness on, a hand to hold—
That’s where the truest magic’s told.
For magic isn’t just a spark—
It’s every light that finds the dark.
It’s every soul that dares believe
In more than what the eyes perceive.
Thank-you for reading.
Much love and Light,
Brenda Marie Fluharty
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