Magic (a poem)

By Roger Owens















When the leaves on the trees
Will no longer support your weight
(Not like when you were eight
And you could fly
And sail with the ease of birds),
Your feet become glued to the ground
And you surrender your magic to the world.
And it’s not so bad, giving up your magic
So other little boys and girls can fly;
You get things in return;
But it is gone.
And you never get it back.
And it is sad.
It is.

Copyright © 2017 by Roger Owens