Amongst hustle, between bustle glows a
bright star, its brilliance illuminating a
shadowed region you consistently overlook, wherein,
Wisepeople await who will signal,
directing you to the place which
you will find at the given time, the given place.
Not that there is hurry underfoot.
Not force, nor deception. It truly is just a poor woman
unsheltered, bearing something beautiful in the dark,
only farmhands who hear proclamations and live them well,
a season where oil lamps never die out. This mere
flash of hope against the night, but oh what
future might emerge from that flicker in each of us,
kindling a common fire to hover round?
Poem by Maia Twedt, 2022
Photo from Unsplash, Dan Kiefer