Epictetus the stoic philosopher said

with your workand your workwill put lifeinto your art

and continued to writehis poetry’

see, it’s wagging its tail,it will follow you anywhere,run off and come back,a perfect companion;this poemloves fun:you want to play dressing up,it’ll laugh and rush off to the attic,the basement, the dressing-up basket;this poemis serious:you want to be silent awhile,rest your head on its shoulder,it will wait for you insympathetic stillness;this poemis humble:turn it over,…

so fiercely with their green carapace like a thoughtful womb,dropping their hidden beauties in reflective autumnso generously despite their ferocity, scattered all around,rejecting the curious mind of passers-by,yielding to those who know to seek what they hold precious;or perhaps to lie uninvestigated, awaiting the invisibilityof the wintered years, the earth’s silent fruitful grave,to seed, to…

want to believe thatthough there are other children,yours is specialbut when it first appears,there’s a moment….should it look like that,is that the way they look?then it’s cleaned up andlooks better…but there’s a part of youready of course to fight for it,but still slightly wondering,how will this miracle turn out?then somebody who has to say itbecause…

of your dead mate whom you’ve no time to bury