The gift of life

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My little egg,
you precious shell of life,
within you dwells all you need ever grow
into your spirit,
into the finest silk.

My little one,
you petal from a flower
that blooms wherever nectar’s found,
life’s your spirit
along the fruitful way.

My little seed,
you’ll germinate and sprout
so many glorious dreams each day
beyond your spirit.
The gift of life is born.

__________________

Note:
Special thanks to my good friend Bobby Kountz – and his first grandchild in honour of whom this was written

In the air  there is a sound 

In the air there’s a sound

reviving and bound

for the inner ear,

a note sketched out

below a rug floating

there about three ages

removed from the pages

strewn with grooves

barely crowned.

Words are majesty

regal tenants of the well

resounding 

Utterances as dances

vowing to work

miracles

Places for space and space for places

names that an age back

meant more than nostalgy

Inventions from an page

of cloud cover

blanket-wrap,  infant howls

The wage earned in deep preparation

for entry

along the narrow passage you never remember

except in dreams.