If there is magic in the turning of the leaves-

in tightly bound skies,

wind-watered eyes,

or cracked-slate seas-

hope to see them. no, seeing is not enough.

hope to eat them with pie and cranberries and prayers.

hope that quiet has a magic too- that redhair acts as amulet in the shrouds,

and green eyes as pledge for the circum of the days.