attending the birth

 

some mornings
i find myself
on my knees,
seep wet to the night’s rain,
attending the birth of a goat –

the world for a moment still
as first feet then nose push
unmoving to the waiting world –
an inanimate pause
while the mother strains,
then head and body
slippery and warm
struggling for upright
and breath.

there is not much for me to do
but watch and wait –
rub them dry with old towels
if the day runs chill,
sometimes clear a mucous nose.
wait and watch while the mother speaks
soft and low as they unfold those first legs –
push upright, nurse, breathe, live.

some days i find myself
on my knees
seep wet to the night’s rain
giving thanks for blood
and life
and morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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it is not like
the world would end
if we, skin close
with the warming
soil, remembered
what it was
to be in love
with each arcing
seed unfurling
on spindle stems –

to know the
touch of spring
in saplings full
ready to push leaves
to a waiting sky –

to taste the season
in pods
crisp green
with fallen rain.

it is not like
the world would
end if we
remembered
how to live
skin close.

 

 

The morning poppy leaves with night rain were posted for The Saturday photo challenge on Weekly Prompts – close https://weeklyprompts.com/2019/08/31/photo-challenge-close

 

 

implicit

heron flies
on slow wings –
carries nesting sticks
to the rising sun.
sets them precarious
in the roosting tree.
dreams the coming season.

weather report

thursday morning
steering wheel cold through gloves,
last crescent moon waning in winter sky.
deep clouds – days long-cold and blustery,
reminding myself to breathe.

beautiful inconvenience

out at the goats
fixing the fence by torchlight
while they watch,
chewing thoughtful –
shaggy and heavy with lamb.

between trees
walking home
the sky is black with stars.
there is no need for lights
our feet know the way,
step carefully
along the billowing clouds
of the milkyway.

 

 

 

 

unseen

somewhere in the snow
a woman beats a drum,
lights a fire,
crouches low
to feed her gods –
says a prayer for us.
says you have to live
first –
be alive before you can
give yourself to the world

somewhere in the sea
a girl speaks quiet
on a boat atlantic rocked,
holds hope in small hands –
carries it continent to continent
with the rolling ocean
in her veins.
says her prayer for us
with the power of glaciers
crashing ancient stories
in the arctic seas.
lives.

somewhere in a field
a girl-woman turns
a disintegrating page
of bird books of ash
where her home once stood –
dances luminous,
her hair dry grass
to the rising sun –
casts her prayer
to a new world emerging
for all of us.
lives.

somewhere in siberia
women still beat their drums
light the fires
pray for us
to their well fed gods –
live.

 

 

sharing the sky

the clouds hardly gathered
the pinking horizon
before the geese began
to shout the sky – claiming
what’s theirs and theirs
and his and ours

and i know
on a red rock ledge
above a cave
in a deep water valley
the female waits
silent on careful nest
listening for life
in the warmth of eggs
smooth against her skin.