Stories Waiting

Daybreak. I look past the frost
on the window in the loft
to see sunlight and a hint of blue sky.
Then the quills on the sill, standing
in their bottles of imaginary ink,
catch my attention to remind me
that the stories of the day
are mine to write and live and tell.
I hear an old familiar voice say,
“Choose well, Grasshopper.”
I smile and bow to the day.

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