My Birth

Dark brown and warm next to the coal stove. Red glinting hot through the cracks. Food smells hold my hands, caress my head. Yes, I can walk to the door. The road is lightening up, curves down to the river. I walk alone swinging my arms for the first time. Down there songs are sung in green, games are played in light, jokes are made in red, orange; blue girls' voices talk about me. OK, I'm coming.