I don't speak about magic

I don't speak about magic. After all, was I not raised by trees and ghosts ? Did I not dance under the moonlight in the cold winter night? How do you speak of what your bones are made of?

I don't speak about magic. Maybe old voices murmur to me "Better silent than dead", but maybe, also, maybe, silence makes space for those who don't know that magic is real, too.

I don't speak about magic. But I know the ways, the ancient paths, the questions to ask, for others to feel their skin shift into wilder realms, for others' eyes to open to the spells in their lives.

I don't speak about magic. Yet circles of crones embrace me when I come near, faeries whisper to each other when I enter the woods in search of shimmering air.

I don't speak about magic, but magic speaks about me.