Thoughts take shape
And flow away
Yet an echo
Strings on
As an elusive undertow
Of the magic
That comes and goes
To those
Too hungry for it
To be anything other than
A gust of wind;
You're blown to a location
Where the stones
Have turned to gems
And the trees
Speak secret tongues
And birds live
Inside your mind
Before they sing.
Then the inevitable
Cracks on the ground,
The leaves brown
As if they turned that way,
And you have been blown
To a wasteland
That resembles your own:
Nothing given
But earned,
Nothing earned
Everything given.
