Timshel

We were all ill prepared, a slim stem

rootless in firm ground; the door

opens on life without a sound, leaving debris

to piece together unknown realms.

 

Newborn, he grabbed for a flower,

and we as parents wonder in what ways

The petals will tear; as he grazes through days

what will he say is the story of his tower?

 

Transitions are doors to gated daffodil beds,

where foreseers, sprouting in Eden’s den, say

“Welcome to a piece of life!” Whose aim

is to discover sense — a drive to ascend.

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