The Magic I Need

This is the beloved
simplicity of days with
early, green grass growing
out of the brown of winter dead,
and the buds of the crabapple
still tight on the limbs,
lime green moss in the shade,
and the sky now bluer
for all the gray it was,
but it fails to give of itself
the magic I need.

My tongue shrivels in a drought,
my hands cannot hold my cup,
and my head melts from the pain -
until I close my eyes,
tune out the gentle lush spring,
to feel him feel me,
and hear him hear me.
Then I can open my eyes,
to take in the singing birds,
or watch the flight of leaves
in the most wonderful breeze,
now that I have been
intoxicated by more than
the solid world around me.