poem: relief

 

relief

at how, when we become so still
things peel away, 

a dirty cloak slides off,

an ugly veneer strips itself.

and the truth of the world dazzles
in sudden werelight.

relief at how there is magic at the core,
everything’s numinous.

at how, there are eyes
in the wood

and they are kind.

                           --Zann Carter [2014]

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Since my brother's death, I haven't been able to write a poem. Until this week. This is the second of two.  I am very happy to welcome poetry back.
The picture is by me. I have become fascinated with the wood planks of my porch and fence. The patterns in the weathered wood! Angels, sorrowful beings, eyes, keyholes, whirling amulets. It's quite odd how something looks very distinctly like something one day, then only a sort of interesting wabi-sabi surface, just a knot in old wood...

In any case, I believe magic is definitely riding under the surface of everything. We have only to be still for a bit, to make an inner movement just a fraction to one side,  for its revelation.