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)