The birthing

The birthing

Before the call of birth,
my mind like a hawk sits perched
on the tree of thoughts unborn,
its branches bare and shorn,
abandoned, gnarled, forlorn.
It stands on a windless hill
in a sky ever hazy bright
in empty stillness-light.
The hawk from dreamless time
just watches the river below
where soon it too will go,
back to the life of flow.

Closer now the river roar,
rush of life from deepest core,
driving forward fierce and blind,
drawing in my drowning mind.
Then the sudden crash of sight,
deafening flash of brightest light,
milk just flowing sweet like pain,
softest breasts all gently lain.
Beaked and angry lips now living
curving toward their swollen giving
thirsting, cruel – unforgiving.

originally published in Now, Vol 2, - revised Dec. 2006