In the woods behind our house,
A creek ran through our neighborhood;
We would play in it during summer camp,
Looking for tadpoles and water-striders.
I would make boats out of leaves
For the fairies stuck on the rocks.
Maybe they could swim—
I didn't ask (I was six).
…
Beyond the main channel
Of the Intracoastal Waterway,
The mangroves hang low,
A verdant tunnel
Leading into the unknown.
An unseen hand
Refuses to release my heart,
My mind fixed
On what lies just beyond
The next bend in the creek
…
The arcane tales
Speak of a world
Parallel to our own—
Of magic and beauty,
Where the merfolk play
And the fairies dance.
Did six-year-old me
See that ancient realm
In the iridescence
Of a dragonfly's wing,
In the gentle hush
Of water on stone,
In how the trees
Embraced the creek,
The leaves catching the light
As they danced in the wind?
Is that what pulls me
So strongly,
So fiercely,
To succumb to curiosity?
Could that magic
Be with me, always,
So I could see
All of the world
With that same wondrous awe?
