Today, I challenged myself. I wanted to make something generally considered devoid of magic seem full of magic. Well? Was I successful?
Old one’s are best, tattered and worn.
Rummage through the shadows
that carpet a wrinkled man’s closet
or explore the darkness beneath
a sleeping crone’s bed, where the dust
has gathered as thick as fog. You’ll
find them there. One will do,
but a pair is better. Shades of green
work best. Bury these treasures
in earth cooled by the shade
of a willow tree. Gently, place
the slippers in the hole’s heart,
drizzle each with thee teaspoons
of honey. Lay a bluejay’s feather
between the slippers, a feather found
on an April morning. Finally, drop three
marbles in the hole as you might drop seeds,
marbles forgotten, abandoned in toy chests
and attic-shoe-boxes. Cover the slippers
with loose soil moistened with cold milk,
then, if there’s a breeze, fresh and crisp,
something will stir in the old man’s heart,
in the crone’s soul and they’ll remember;
they’ll remember their childhood follies:
skipping stones and puddle jumping,
tire swings and apple bobbing.
Age will crumble beneath
the heft of their smiles.