We find our enchantments
as we can,
when and where they come to us,
drinking deep
and long, as long as we can.

Perhaps in a far-off garden
of the mind or of the heart.

Where a crane raises its graceful neck,
a red crown, into an apricot sky,
lifts its stark leggy grace above
the soil and sorrow of earth,
a soaring banner of luck and longevity
for an ailing world.

Where the slow, steady support
of the turtle is a stepping stone
for the blue-plumed crane
to cross water, ascend air,
transcend even these exotic
enticing garden pleasures.

In the old tales, enchantment
may reveal inner truth,
hidden beauty, the golden
currency of a single soul.
A hag is not only enchantress,
but young beauty shrouded
in wrinkled skin and tattered robe.
The fair unknown rises
above seeming humble birth
unmasked by dint of kindness,
brushing off the toilsome dirt
of pigsty and horse stall.

My love would will you or charm you
from this sickbed,
paint you into an earthly garden
of radiant health, of shining
fortune and sunlit groves,
shimmering water, air that hums
with creatures of every hue.

Be enchanted.
Be transformed.
Be well.