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The Greatest Gift of All

I was born in the midst of a cranberry sun,
creeping her way over the soft and sandy horizon.
Where the footprints were lost and full of mistrust,
I could depict a pathway.
I was breathing in a solemn hope,
that life was innocent and hopeful.
Where dark, rainy skies, took shape in my eyes,
I could depict a rainbow.
Like an artist’s easel, bare, no lines to touch its base,
I swept the brush from summer to snow.
Where the waves so turbulent and misunderstood,
I could depict peace.
I waited to spread my wings, just until the time was right,
to glide across the rainy sky.
Where somewhere so dark and dead, filled with wooden breathe,
I could depict life.
If my mother never told me anything but this,
it was to look behind reality.
Where the crow’s wings were darkest, afraid, and contorted,
I could depict the light.
And this, I believe, was the greatest gift of all.



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