Sestina...Will Use Magic
by Jane Lang

She wants tomorrow today...will use magic.
Thirteen years old, she intones an ancient spell.
Wears a blood-red flowing skirt of a gypsy
twirls, swirls; hair of golden-lights, soft sigh a sign
daisy petals plucked one-by-one, "What of life?"
to the North Wind she asks, "What of love?"

"Too early to tell," North Wind whispers 'bout love
though in practice the girl still congers magic
wonders the age she will begin living life
(while North Wind's cold nights warm, it ponders the hex)
happy, inquisitive, as her star-bright sign
shines like the eyes of this golden-hair gypsy.

'Twixt teen and twenty the girl is a gypsy
blood red skirt swirls like rivers of angst and love.
"Wish I may, wish I might" still a constant sign
she finds though, it is destiny not magic.
No need to conger, bring forth spells, quell a hex
she's learning how best to navigate her life.

Still plucks petals, one-by-one: joy, luck, fate, life
warps, weaves the pashmina shawl of a gypsy
into today. It's real. Neither spell nor hex
twirling, swirling, living in moments of love
days faced fully, truly; this is the magic.
In her dreams she's been hoping for a sign.

Tell-tale whisper, a flutter, a wishful sign
of continuance, a golden-haired new life
as the girl, now woman, spins her own magic
from long-ago summer days of a gypsy
when she questioned, what of life and what of love
offering to the ether her childish hex.

No spells, incantations, now rid of the hex
no daisy, no petals, no symbol or sign
no North Wind questions, here it's warm, full of love.
She rests, incubates, nests, all for this new life
the girl of golden hair, the twirling gypsy
woman-child waits for this miracle-magic.

It's magic in all things and she needs no hex.
Like the golden-hair gypsy, look for a sign
fill and frame life, listen for words of love.


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