She keeps magic in her pockets

tied to the strings of red woollen mittens

and hidden deep in tiny shells -

polished like sea glass

the soft burr of color closing over her eyes

as she gazes out at the dawn

creeping coral and rose over the garden gate

while the curl of fragrant tea steeps the morning into something ripe.

She is a trickster and spins gold

out of your bad dreams

and secrets she keeps for you

hidden in a garden that only blooms at midnight

where she tells you stories of dragons

and feeds you oranges and chocolate

laid out on lace, and china plates

collected from sandmen and angels

who got caught in the rain and lost their way

coming home from the stars.

She gathers your wishes in her apron

and stores them in a cedar chest -

wood fragrant from smoke and rain

the heady scent of lingering autumn -

worn in the soft hollow over her heart,

knowing their worth is more than kingdoms

or legends invented by princes and seers,

tracing your childhood on their fragile edges.