When do we become an adult?
In a moment? Or a series of them.
Or do we ever really change?
It doesn’t.
The Fort, of course.

On the island off of Maine
A ferry ride and a sprint down a hill
is all it takes
and she’s there.
Back to her secret
Back to the magic morphing
It became an inn, a ship, a palace
And with it
She a barkeep, a sailor, a queen
Every time, a new story, a new person
But now?
It doesn’t.
The fort, of course.

My tears condensed
Once diamonds, now
just tears
Where did all the magic go?
Did it change?
It doesn’t.
The Fort, of course.

Did the magic leave me?

Insidious uncertainty
creeping, crawling, about to pounce
A Gleam.
Of hope?
Of glass.
Sea smoothed, graced my palm
Its story ran in its grains
An epic tale told to
myself alone.
Real magic.
A Glitter
Is all it
takes.