When I sit a Poptart on the dash
to absorb the early morning heat,
I think of you
and wonder if where you are
is as hopeful as that hesitant sunlight.

If casting spells were in my nature,
I would allow you to absorb everything
good about me through your fingertips
as you work.

If writing charms were my calling,
I would forge you an armor of words,
a rapier of wit,
a soft bed of humor on which to rest
with feathers bravely plucked from the birds
that fly North for you, when I cannot.

If protective charms were, instead, my talent,
I would charm the world to do your bidding
because the fools now think they have something
better to do.
I would charm the sun to shine for you,
the moon to bask you in serenity,
the wind to always smell of rain,
and the river to flow from the mountains,
sweet and crisp and cool at your feet.

If all of the magic in the world did not belong
to your smile.