The Birthing

Sometimes it feels as if I am carrying it as a child in its womb. It is yet unformed, but it has searching plasmid eyes that see in the dark. It is unnamed and dispersed as threads and fragments, but I sense its weight. In the beginning (that ‘beginning’ is always nebulous), there is an impulse, a motive pressure that cannot yet be translated into words; at that time (‘that time’ is always uncertain), it is a kernel of import, yet still meaningless. If I don’t force it to appear it will gestate, gather a form around it. If we are sensitive to the creative process we will know It is not the words we hear inside us but the passing of muted footsteps as they enter a reason to be born. Perhaps after all. it’s not the poem coming through us but we coming through the poem?