I am magic.
I need to give myself more credit for the
iridescence, humour & light
I bring into my world
I infuse my days with magic like
the scent of jasmine on the wind,
lilacs in the garden,
patchouli in an old bookshop.
My magic is not a trick.
It is not saved for entertaining others
or for applause.
It is in my fingertips, in the quiet
of my “Shh, listen…”.
It is in my thoughts
that sometimes leak out
onto paper or pigment on a brush
landing on canvas in the form
of a portrait.
My magic is not for everybody.
I stick out like a sore thumb
even when I am trying to hide,
or when I am trying to be seen & heard,
there is no way to jump into the conversation.
Not everyone appreciates my magic.
Sometimes I am too loud.
Sometimes I cannot speak a word.
Selectively mute, I hear it is called.
My magic is in every cell of my body.
My Neurons fire like fairies
in a field, holding mullein torches.
They are dancing just for me.
When I was 22, a poem woke me up
in the middle of the night.
I wonder how it nudged me awake?
It never said.
The words fell from above.
I grabbed paper and scrawled
the words, page after page
as quickly as I was able.
Eight pages, single spaced when I
typed it up the next day.
A poem called Birthright
and I still have not decoded its mystery.
It is magic just like me.
I am a poem that fell out of thin air.
Someone scribed me into the form
of a body and named me Melanie.
Like the poem, it is my birthright.
I want to spend the rest of my days
exploring the magic that was gifted to me.
This lifetime, mercurial & filled with stardust
& dirt beneath my nails, is my chance
to dance in my own light.
Neurons firing in the light of my magic,
they are dancing just for me.
Melanie Ritchie 