Need For Magic

After a lonely night and an empty day
while neighbors talk of politics and weather
you finally admit she’s left you and you seek
a spell that will bring a man and his wife together.

You try to make up a recipe for magic,
of remembered things, her hands like folded wings,
hair curling from under her scarf on rainy days,
her awkward pose while she reads what the mailman brings.

And her words, her words, oh, any common phrase,
letters she wrote you starting with Dear Love,
notes to herself she often scribbled down
on a calendar that hangs beside the stove.

It might add enchantment to touch what she has touched,
straighten a picture, empty a vase, the door
to her closet to shut, her gloves on the davenport
tucked in the cushions, attempt a household chore

the way she did, for ingredients of the charm,
clean out the fireplace, polish the kitchen chrome,
wash a few windows and act as if you are sure
this spell shaped like a prayer will bring her home.