Prologue

We were possibility.
We were drifting motes
taking shape,
taking new shape,
made whispers and shouts,
made flesh.

We were repetitions of common dreams,
repetitions of common dreams.
First breath following
generations of fruitful labor,
tiring labor and plenty of pain.

No one born to certainties,
but smiled on. And though it now
may feel otherwise,
the smiles never diminish, are
never unsmiled, never frowned away
or cried away. Yes, the laughter of smiles
fades; the imprint endures.

Some plod onward,
some skip lightly,
but we are always loved.
Out of that,
certainty,
or ought to be.
Begin, then,
writing our stories today.