This was written in the dark.
Whispered in the night.

It was wished upon a rising sun,  
Released in morning light.

Less a poem than a prayer,
A whimper more than scream.

Born as naked hope and watered,  
Grown from faint idea to dream.

Now the sound of summer coming;
Breezes rustling greening leaves,

Leaves us knowing things as growing,
Be it flowers, crops or trees.

Painless birth from earth to air,
Summer; springtime's daughter

Laughs and sings to sunkissed things,
Wet with broken water.

This field is required.

"Try as I might,
I can't seem to find
where it all stops and I begin.
I'll take that as a sign
that this is an artifact of Mind.

Call it God, I suppose; path of lesser resistance.

In a philosophical rainstorm, any name'll do."

A perfect image is so profaned by distorted mirrors.

So few mirrors seem to esteem the image, itself.