A 50 minute drive turned 150 belies magic.
A woman waiting alone for over 70 is magic. 

A wreck on the road in the rain raises tempers, but
police waving flags and u-turns can’t kill magic.

Detours through the fields of Kentucky are tragic:
Catnip Hill smells of urine, another crash, but magic

knows naught of an end to the journey, hard-headed
and chasing the scent on the wind of true magic.

The laughter we shared as I drove, steeped in banter,
was one form of alchemy and ritual for magic.

The rabbit (as large as a dog) wreathed in grasses
who squats in my garden remembers the magic:

Refusal to flee, turn around, or be moved
despite dangers, distractions, or rain because magic

is sewn in his softness, and tempered in tenacity
from decades of dealing with what was not actual magic.

Forgive me for chasing his trail; it’s a metaphor
to say, you and I, armed with far more than magic

had reason to run, from our stories, our memories,
yet chose to stay, to press on, in the search for real magic,

and those moments we shared, by a fountain, in Danville,
your head on my shoulder, quiet words, was a promise

that we make our fates, Universes notwithstanding,
and the space between palms is the birthplace of magic.