the confident and free,
books like children
embossed with lyrical glory
inviting the touch of hands
and eyes upon the voice of creation
Toil and solitude bear sweet fruit,
exquisite gifts of divine reply
But what of me,
the gestation of my plums,
piquant flesh or withered husk,
my name engraved in gold on spines
or stacks of scribble
coffee stained?
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