Morning brings a fragile visitation: the hint of a poem whose silken threads ebb and flow, playing hide-and-seek with my mind, gradually reproducing into compatible flecks which swim like dust motes on a sunny day. Words and phrases float through an open window: tender gifts bestowed by an unknown source; obscure miracles which mingle with the mix, transforming raw verse till it fits, displays a hint of beauty, and on occasion, blooms with exhumed truth.
©Jane Paterson Basil