I’ve written a book!
Though more truly,
I’m holding a book in my hands—
the same hands that typed the words
now resting between its covers.

This book wanted to be written.
It insisted on being born,
then released into the world.
I feel no claim of ownership—
I was simply the vessel it chose,
brought forth by being available.
Yet I do feel a quiet duty:
to give it the best send-off I can.

Like a parent with a child,
I held guardianship for a while.
Now the moment of release
has almost arrived.
As Gibran so tenderly wrote,
I’ll let it fly—
an arrow loosed from the bow.

Its destination?
The universal heart,
beating in every human breast.