No one ever talked about it.
Not even her grandparents
Who knew her best
And had seen the silent whirlwinds
Take shape each time magic was in demand.
Not the gamboling pixie type
Or one with leprechauneske qualities,
But a – one – of -a -kind rendition
Merlin called a marvel.
Grandma with her pure spirituality
thought it had something to do with her saint’s name.
Grandpa, suited with his scientific bent, believed
It had to do with the way her brain was wired.
Those of us on the outside, joying over
Poppies and anemones she caused to blossom
Gave it no name.
Having it, unfettered by a calling, sans wonder,
Was quite enough.