A poem, composed and lost for a long time. A satisfying post Covid surprise.
I had received a Gift. a trifle it was, acknowledged at the time, as something unexpected but for which one is grateful. Lost then, to the Important, as acknowledged by all, or to the Unknown, who none have heard of. The sieve of ideas, of art, is the imperfect advocate, a fuzzy decider of what is remembered. Another universe -- a later time, easily skipped over, or completely undetected. But when realities align I find again the Gift, its artfully aimed healing assuaging the soul's need. The combination is as it was always intended to be. Time is an always unlisted component of every effective spell, and of all lives.