The magic passes by

The poems always come

unbidden.

I could hunt
for them,
but don’t know
where to look.
 
But this one,
not merely unbidden,
but buried
in sequence
with unlike things.
 
After a hard talk
with a man
I love,

and a while spent
with the compost pile,
and a gathering of tools
and a piling of lumber,
and a power outage,
to divert me
from one work to another,
timed by whoever
times such things,

and a brownie
with special powers,
and a trip
to the store,
for a bottle of cream
to make the week-old oatmeal
coming out
of the darkened fridge
a meal
moderately more palatable
than it might otherwise be,
 
and more brownie,
a bit more brownie,
and a passing tease
with a virile neighbor
about his virility,
and a beer on a warm slow day,
 
the power
came on,
and the poem
came, too,
loaded with prizes
(except no gift
of invented words
to share),
 
came with memories
of Noble Causes
and Bruising Battles
(as Marrianne’s book
has it),
 
came with memories
of love and adventure,
came with hints
of life left to live,
 
and, suddenly,
the unbidden poem,
having arrived,
having said
whatever it had to say,
departed,
leaving me to return
to tools and timber.