Written by Leah Marut

Who am I to call this world a failed testament

when there exists golden laughter, bubbling

like a brook of life?  Are we to forget


there is a piece of the sun

in every smile and streams of stars

coursing through our veins?  Moonlight reaches


for our palms in a gentle embrace, a rendezvous

between the galaxy and her lost

child, and we say we are forgotten?  Auroras


have stretched across the night to light the way

and if we looked closer, we could see them flicker

in our eyes.  Lightning lives in our minds and some say


we have wings, if only we could remember

how to fly, yet we are content for now as long as

summer words still pass between our lips and our heartbeats


press close.  I am convinced of the magic hidden

in our spilled ink and swirling paint, of the comfort woven

through forgotten melodies— no, I have not given up


yet, not while the symphony of the spring rain

still plays for ears willing to listen.  Such beauty of our small living

surely cannot be of our world; oh, it is far better suited for the twilight.