It Is Her Way

She has a talent for attracting things:
a magic magnet in her brings her
dragonflies and petals, paper airplanes,
still-green baby leaves, bewildered

birds, confetti, moths, forgotten letters,
major thirds and minor sighing flying
bits of loose conundrum: swiggles
and the almost-were’s that swirl

and swerve into the everyday.
It is her way to let whatever flies
and floats alight or sift or fall or drift
into her bowl. (She landed naked

in this saucer when a life she can’t
remember lost her.) The miracle is that
it always all goes in. Beyond her brim
the world is vacant, clean and trim.

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