In the wee hours of
the morning
a small idea forms
that flies
like a gnat, but
nicer,
into the night sky.
It races up toward a
sliver of moon
and caresses the
mist of morn
as it hovers over
the pond.
A gift, that will
make itself known
soon enough, as a
point of light,
leaves a trail as it
climbs higher.
Birthed on this
night, in this place,
this child does not
cry, but sings.
Let us all be aware
of the inner world,
for, to forget it,
leads to ever stumbling.
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