New Mother
Babies having babies.
Little woman cradling small heads and tiny hands before the maiden time has
passed.
The pools of my soul cry out that she has not tasted, nor felt enough of her own.
That she has not lived the maiden's season long enough.
That the seeds of her flesh are being laid in ground not fully cultivated, and
turned by her own hands.
Will such ground teem with the nutrients such small things need?
Is her youth ready for planting, or to be rooted?
She will make a beautiful and magical mother.
In her eyes I see the fire that understands a child.
So I inhale the news and exhale the bittersweet air that makes the mark of her
flesh come with the cost of a woman's sacred time.
The time...
Of Becoming.
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