I used to believe

in abracadabra magic;

white rabbits from hats,

ribbons from shirt sleeves,

coins from behind my ear,

children’s party make believe;

dragons and princesses,

tall towers and treehouses,

and the way the wind blows whispers

when you are small and slight

with dreams dripping on your brow

and in the crooks of your knees.


I used to believe

in the magic of me;

the sparkles in my eyes,

glitter in my smile

and magenta hope

pounding in my chest;

my audacity to just be

instead of want and worry.

Somewhere along the way

I lost the child in me;

forgot her on the journey home

from your heart to mine.

She was a whirligig

of reckless abandon,

ratty red hair beating the wind

stood at the top of the castle

with the cheesy grin

of a dirty rascal.


I used to believe

my magic was a memory

but as I sit by the sea,

to lose landlocked melancholy,

I remember the she

in my poems and dreams

is still me.


© Kristiana Reed 2018

13 thoughts on “Whirligig

  1. poetryfromtheinkwell says:

    We thrive within who we are, then we lose ourselves… the lucky are able to find themselves again… the sea has the power, doesn’t it? I love this, especially the last stanza.

    Liked by 1 person

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