Quite often, a poem, or the beginnings of a poem, will come to me suddenly, and in such a way that I will always remember that moment when the spark started the flame.
Not so in this case.
I'm not sure what the trigger was.
Perhaps it was as simple as seeing a "Handle With Care" label on a package.
Perhaps it was a quiet evening and I was thinking back to a time when I was quite young, swimming in dreams of what I was to become someday.
I don't know.
But I do know that I was struck by how fragile those dreams can be ... like a bubble glistening in its freshness ... a bubble so delicate that even a most careful touch can burst it.
I hope I stopped short of becoming preachy in this little poem ... and I hope to stop short of that in these comments.
I generally hope, when I'm writing, that I will end up with something that is thoughtfully assembled ... that it will be thoughtfully received by the reader ... and that it may have some residual, lasting value for that reader.
HANDLE WITH CARE
There are few things
as beautifully crafted,
gilded or etched,
as magically alluring,
and yet so vulnerable
to the careless touch,
as the dreams
of a young child.
(originally published in Capper's)
Today's word: vulnerable