life_is_but_a_dream ovenbird In a book of children’s tales I recognize your face. Though rendered in coloured pencil in a whimsical style, there’s no mistaking the particular sweep of your hair, and the wide amazement of your hazel eyes. The artist has depicted you holding an infant, no more than four months old. You’re out of your depth and clearly frazzled. In your right hand you’re holding a tiny lamp to the mouth of the baby as if it’s a bottle of milk. The baby is smiling in the devious way they sometimes do, looking very pleased with the chaos she’s created. Your story could have been different in infinite ways. Everything that happens is a miracle of chance. I open my life to the next page and find my place in the impossible. 260807 what's it to you? who go blather from