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

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