OF THE MAGICAL AND MUNDANE
She is not only the pragmatist,
she is the enchantress.
From the organizing of paperwork,
taxes, forms and receipts,
to reminding me when a birthday is due,
grounding flights of fancy
that have no hope of touching sky,
or reminding me what really matters to me
with half a glance
and that chuckle that only she can do,
her good sense is a benefit
worth my own weight in gold.
Yet even as she props me up,
making certain I am buckled in,
and poking the flashlight of her curiosity
into every corner before letting me ride,
she manages to fire off in my core a set of fireworks,
strobes, shotflingers, cascades and star-bursts,
which I feel as bursts of heat,
warm rockets arcing through me.
How can she make a conversation
about mundane drivel
into a captivating dazzle
that leaves me trying to memorize her?
How is it possible
that her interest in me
is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen?
What liquid magic exists
in those soft brown eyes
that grasps my throat and squeezes?
And please, for the love of my sanity,
how can this one soul’s approval
hold my entire being
in a thousand clutching grips?
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