this thing I hold

it sings like the whip bird ...
startling passers by
and mesmerising those
who pause to stop and stare.
I have molded it
with my own hands and
my own imagination.
I have caressed it with my
breath and words subtle.
I have watched it grow .....
still excitable, but having
more to glance back, reflect upon
than once it did.
It still shimmers when the
morning sun hits it
and it still shivers
when the winter sets in.
It has seen you even when
you have not and it still talks
of things that are yet to be.
It makes sense of the unknowable
and tears away the stitching
of thousands of years ...
but don't ask it how
and don't ask it why
a spec in the voids
where everything is magic.