The World is Full of Magical Things

 The world is full of magical things,

patiently waiting, like whispers caught in the breath of the wind,
for the glaze of our hurried eyes to soften,
for the din of our restless minds to quiet.

A silver thread glimmers in the weave of a spider's web,
its artistry unseen by those who rush past.
The ancient oak holds stories in its gnarled bark,
its voice a slow hum,
felt only by those who lean close to listen.

Morning dew gathers on grass tips,
tiny orbs cradling reflections of the infinite,
each droplet a cosmos, waiting for us to look beyond the ordinary.

The world’s magic does not announce itself,
it does not clamour for attention.
It lingers in the patient rhythm of tides,
the silence between birdsong,
the unbroken gaze of a child who still sees the wonder we have long forgotten.

If we sharpen our senses—
if we let time drip slower through our fingers,
let stillness settle like dust on a sunlit windowsill—
we might yet glimpse it.

For the world is full of magical things,
and they have always been here,
waiting.










Inspired by W.B. Yeats

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