My Mother's Magic

Back when I was brainstorming names for this blog, I kept vacillating between "Mama's Magic" and "My Mother's Magic." Obviously, I settled on the former. Seemed more informal, more appropriate, more "me." But the latter was tempting, if only because it's the title of a poem that I wrote a looooong time ago for my mom. Since poetry has been on the brain lately, and since the current Etsyblogger carnival topic is to write something about mothers (for Mother's Day, natch) I thought I'd go ahead and dig it out.

It's interesting to revisit this, now that I'm a mother myself. My appreciation for my mother's magic has grown by orders of magnitude over the last three years -- and she is definitely gifted with a magic of her own beyond playing with prisms. If I can say, someday, that I've done as well as she has at this whole motherhood thing, then I will be delighted!

My Mother’s Magic


I used to think my mother caught the sun
between her fingers — as I watched with delight,
she’d gather up loose strands of light, fine-spun
like threads of glass shot through with every bright
color. As her fingers moved, I’d look,
amazed. She stood beside the paneled wall,
and I could only see the way she took
small somethings in her hands, then let them fall
commanding the sun she’d caught to turn somersaults.
The rainbows flew around the living room
like jewels set free, dancing from dark, locked vaults
inside our hearts.

Now, my small hands spin light
from crystals into color, and I know
my mother’s magic. Still, the simple sight
of prisms making rainbows lets me go
back into childhood, when my mother’s hands
made magic, healed a wound with one cool caress,
tamed tangled hair. Her hands met all demands
to set the world aright with quick success.
Like all honest magic, it can’t be taught.
The secret must be discovered alone.
I’m starting to understand — the light she caught
illuminated love. Through her hands, it shone.