The trek of allegiance of bright sunflowers,
the profuse joy of feeling a book’s raspy pages,
a slit of zestful sunbeams from the earliest hours,
and despite the egotistical wail of humanity’s rages,
the eloquence of a kind word passing through,
a bullet of laughter after the eyes’ surprised spar,
the healing delicacy like a petal for every bruise,
is the closest to being alive so far.
A Weaver's Maze 