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
the pearl
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
two lovers
who were drawn together by the simple song
of a wren,
by magnetic lines of force where destiny
always hovers.
~William Hammett
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