The world turns this night
as I drive home into the gloaming
and the ancestors come out to play,
the mother of pearl wash of the sky
coaxing them to immediacy:
their fondness and their loss,
their shaping and their passing.
The world turns this night
as a little life works away
in the hospitable dark
and news of her holding is entrusted,
she making and being made,
heartbeat within cavernous heartbeat,
a submariner meshing
tissue and bone,
endowed with this one’s will,
that one’s nose,
forging random and predictable kinlikeness
and her vivifying, unreplicated self,
already beloved beyond measure,
the first of the next generation.
See you.
(C U)
