It is in the greening of new things. Soft down and the smell of hay. It is in the shaft of light that comes through that barn high window. The air tastes of warm earth, life. Every story begins this way. It was never truly about the 'dark and stormy night'. It was about the clear, blue morning and the poppies reaching toward a star miles and miles away. It was about newness. Something unquantifiable.
You can look into tear-filled eyes and not cry. You're proud of that? Me, I'd be ashamed. But I'm still pretty green.