For That Sharp Pain

“Great stillness reigned in the forest, and I heard the green leaves dream, I heard the dream of the bark from which boats, ships, and sails will arise.” (Adam Zagajewski) There are half-finished statues out in the yard and almost bald patches of yellow white grass, where the stone that blossomed stood before the newly finished work was lifted by the old gardener and his two sons, wrapped in blankets, placed, like fragile eggs, in straw on the back of your old truck - and you, delivered from obsession, lover, mother, midwife to whatever lies awake and waiting, locked inside the dreaming clay or stone; you, your hair still wet with sweat and crowned with tiny shards of dead skin stone; you, your fingers now slowly unclenching: Letting go. How I love you in these moments, when the old truck roars and the forest holds its breath; when you forsake, for now, the stone and clay, the chisel of Creation; when you walk, unburdened, past me, back inside: You set me free, abandoned me, so long ago, I have become invisible to you - but I still love and crave for breath on stone, for that sharp pain of being born.