This world bruises us into retreat. 
A half-life crawling back to the womb, away 
From false starts and things we have been.  
But in the house of becoming there are no clocks—
No chimes marking transformation— 
Only the whisper of possibility. An expanse 
Vibrating in the palm of your hand. 
Choices shaped like rivers endlessly branching its waters. 
Begin in your life’s timid daybreak 
Or begin in the twilight of your years. 
Our lives are a gallery of unfinished portraits.  
Each stroke—a choice. Unrestrained, untamed 
By the leash of time, each breath, each moment, 
A fresh parchment. Write, rewrite, until the ink runs dry.
Let it startle you. Become a sunburst  
In a winter sky, laughter in a room of silent faces, 
Become raindrops tracing veins 
Of a leaf, or unexpected ballads in city noise.