Magnetic lines of
force arc from pole to equator,
equator to pole so that the calendar sticks to the fridge.
In the junkyard, a giant crane lifts iron
with the ease of a white-gloved magician.
The salmon and the whale fantail the ocean’s foam
so as to mate where the metal dart hits the map
with impossible precision, like finding
of great price in the chaos of a Byzantine bazaar.
Such is the magic and mystery of the meant-to-be
I do not know the substrate of why or the
collusion of when,
only that a woman in a white lace gown serves tea.
The ritual simply exists, and the teacups are Zen.
The tea was harvested in a far-off land by
who were drawn together by the simple song of a wren,
by magnetic lines of force where destiny always hovers.