The magic is under a rock amid the moss next to a tree growing alone in a field where during the rainy season there is a stream and during the migratory season a constantly shifting scene of ducks and geese and always clouds, wind, sky, sun, stars.
The magic is in an unmarked box in the basement stacked in a corner by the water heater next to the abandoned armchair with broken springs and not visible from the cellar steps.
The magic is woven into the rug in the living room, the threadbare Oriental rug with an unfortunate wine stain and a corner which was gnawed off by a puppy years ago.
The magic is in this envelope with the creaky handwriting and the 5 cent stamp addressed to someone who may or may not have been a great aunt.
The magic is here, in my hand, and I give it to you, freely, without expectation.
reading. hrmm. that would be books, magazines, newspapers, or electronic articles. those things. I left them somewhere, just over ... hrmm ... here? maybe? there?
ah, forsythia. ah, daffodils. ah, tulips. ah, dandelions. ah, violets. ah, bleeding heart. o! spring!