Magicians
Father raised bright tiger lilies
and roses the color
of the sunset,
that slow, daily apocalypse.
Trumpet vine and Copa de Oro,
orange and gold
as the wildfires
that ate up our dry hills
each Fall,
when the wind began to howl
and rattle
our old wooden house.
Some nights, we were a family of wolves,
protecting old bones.
Other times,
mystics,
poets,
bards—
magicians
who forgot the words to their spells,
who accidentally hexed themselves.
[image: Man & Wah]
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Visitant 
Strong evocative poem!
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Thank you so much, Tricia!
That’s wonderful to hear. Especially since it is thematically lifted from my novel-in-process!
On on,
Tai
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