I have a light, hidden inside, I try not to let out.
Sometimes, it escapes me & it entrances those about.
No bushel is bulletproof; I can’t always be en guard.
Though, I am content to be my very own humble bard.
I write my verse & place it here; so that is has a home.
A library of only me saved in digital tome.
On occasion, patrons stumble in marveling at my work.
Poring over my haystacked words long felled by my pitchfork
They seek my silver needles scattered thru my golden bales.
They soon forget, & so do I, these transcendental tales.
L.B.Stowe 