Ordinary Magic

There’s magic

in the moon, gleaming like a pearl above

the silence of the night;

golden snowflakes held within a streetlamp’s nimbus

drifting gently down, turning to swirling silver,

caressing a face with perfect, dwindling tranquility.

The man walks alone, a plastic bag hanging from his hand;

it’s cold, and his fingers are stiff, and his heart is tough and tired,

but maybe he’ll stay for a moment.

Is it the wind, rippling through the falling snow, that wets his eyes?

Or the sight of it?

Maybe he’ll stay,

and be awed by the world,

and be fragile for a little while.

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