“What is Magic to you,” he asked as they walked together in autumn eve through glade of fallen spirits. “Where does Universe sign? How does God speak, to you?”
A wind caught and its touch through trees stripped and scattered further cast of colored leaves weakened in autumn’s hold scattering in wind and over earth as she watched their spiral dance into a distance of horizon sky and low-slope hill.
She kept her words, pondering them in her heart.[i]
“Is it in magnificence you’ve seen, or in the small and subtle ways? Are there mediums that speak truer to your spirit?” he asked. “God knows I have mine.
I light candles, read, then write what’s in my heart; however absurd it seems. Words come to me in books, passages, and songs: timings of message that give meaning in context to a moment of life and spirit.
I look on skies, listen to the quiet…receive conversations from strangers that come from nowhere to offer perspectives and answers without my seeking; perspectives and message in affect to soul-questions—never spoken—that only God could know.
Does that ever happen to you?” he asked. “How does it speak? How does it show?”
Low sun caught in the heart of a tree of life, fire crown with casting halo arc in prism spread before changing evening sky.
They stared on the light, sensing and listening to the speak of soft wind through boughs and movements of leaves across the earth.
Vision shone; but she kept her words, pondering them in her heart.