Born of Magic

He looks upon his baby hands
Enchanted by the wonder
Chubby fingers bend and fan
Move forward, backward, under

Eyes fixed upon his finger-dance
Track gentle rhythmic gestures
Accepting that they move by chance—
Too young yet for conjecture

Soon enough he’ll come to know
He makes his fingers dance
He makes them catch and throw
The seeds to sow, he plants

It’s regrettable and tragic
We stay young but a short while
For nothing’s born of magic—
Like the wonder of a child!