Day 28: MAGIC
and celebrations of summertime
Friends,
Today is a very special day with a very special poetry prompt! My second children’s book, Summer’s Magic, is OUT in the world! It’s on its way to you if you've ordered it, headed straight to your bookshelf, coffee table, cozy corner! It’s in wonderful little bookshops waiting to be picked up by a child who hopes to celebrate summer or an adult who wants to reconnect to the magic of the seasons.
This book is for all of us, no matter our age.
Every time I walk outside and take a look in my container garden, I remember how tender this relationship to Mother Earth and the creatures around me is. We belong to one another, no matter what. We belong to the changing seasons, because they teach us who we are, no matter our age.
So, please order a copy or two. Please share about it with your people, your communities, your libraries and social circles. Please use my words and the life of Bo and his family to find ways to truly celebrate the coming season.
And when you’re not sure how to pronounce some of the words, remember, you can follow me on Instagram where I share Potawatomi words and culture from my books.
And now, let’s celebrate Magic.
Magic isn’t as unattainable as we think it is. It’s a blooming tulip. It’s a cozy book. It’s a sturdy shelter. It’s a moment of kinship. It’s a handwritten note. It’s a changing season. It’s a shed tear. It’s an authentic smile. It’s the grief, too. It’s protest. It’s our pet companions. Its sacred rest. It’s healing trauma. It’s telling a story. It’s lighting a candle. It’s writing a poem. It’s everything everywhere all at once. It’s this. It’s you. It’s us. Magic is.
ILLUMINATED LETTERS
The book of the world must be written in the language
of angels, I used to think: an alchemical text demanding
centuries of careful contemplation. I wanted the words,
wanted the wisdom, wanted to study those curlicued mysteries
and find the secret truth that would transmute my lead to gold.
Oh, beloved child.
It’s not your fault you didn’t know
how to read the leaves that fall at the foot
of the maple tree, or the ripples of a water
skipper on the surface of the creek.
You didn’t know the river stones told fortunes
or that the full moon is exactly what she seems:
a sphere of mirror suspended in night as a promise
that beyond even the longest dark, the light returns.
Oh, wounded heart.
When the forest fire strikes — and it will — remember
the seed that cannot crack and grow without this heat.
Remember the stars who gave their hearts to build your bones.
Remember roots, and hold your hurt with tender hands.
The book of the world can’t be fettered by ink.
It’s written in letters of spider silk and snowfall
and the saffron pink of sunrise;
every bumble bee’s impossibly gossamer wing
pointing to the plain truth of the eternal.
Magic
Mysterious
Alluring
Gorgeous
Inspiring
Creative
...
Magically
Acknowledging
Greatness and wonder
In everyday
circumstances