Someone is trying to have a baby, and the chances, while slim, stir up hope others thought
long gone. Someone else is dreaming of a painting still absent from the canvas, but she knows,
deep down, the blue to start it. Someone else rises for a job she doesn't love, but a line of light
stops her midway through the drive and she points her phantom camera. And on it goes,
the tremble of belief that dares us with its smallness. How an inkling seed can bloom
before it hits the dirt. And even if it fails, some flower - stubborn as an itch - remains intact,
our minds a greenhouse where the temperature rarely changes, the air humming like a womb.
It's true, the crash may come, our wild fictions tumbling to earthbound fact.
But I don't want to write about that. Someone is trying for a baby. A canvas, white and rough,
gestates with the thought of blue. The chances, while slim, are always enough.