Somewhere between the sheets of cream-wove parchment she lay

Waiting for thought to take shape. Ripe. Full-blown. Secure.

Comfortable in the knowledge that before too long the waters

Would break.

The first wail. Strong and full-throated.

Later. You held her in the crook of your arm. Ginger. Warm.

Even later. You took upon yourself the loving task of nurturing her.

Watched her grow.

Now. Strong and independent it is time for her to take her place in the world.

It isnt easy, is it? To let go? To abandon your musechild, your poem?

Naveen Kishore


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