Pratt's poem makes a quiet argument: magic hasn't gone anywhere, it has just shrunk down to the size of a household. The speaker talks directly to "you," in a warm, reassuring tone, and offers a handful of tiny wonders. There's a spot behind the sofa that stays free of dog hair, a spoon that makes food taste like honey, a moth at the screen door with a "calm and gentle face." None of these are grand or dramatic, and that's the point.
The last image carries the most feeling. A white stone in your pocket will help you "remember to breathe." Judging by that line, the speaker knows that people can be anxious or overwhelmed, and offers a simple charm as comfort. The mood is tender and gently hopeful, a little like a friend slipping you a secret. The poem suggests that paying attention to small, odd, private things can be its own kind of magic.