I return to writing these poems not knowing what words mean; written in journals decades old or unveiling themselves new on even brighter screens. I do know that I disagree with the notion that birth is an exile from some culminating experience meant to last into the infinite. Is G*d any less of a G*d after the death of anyone? Or, do the dance steps of the G*ds become more frenzied as a birth nears? I pause in my walk and count those tender sounds tapping out the letters to the word c-a-u-t-i-o-n.
birth, a forced exile into the land of asking, why?
Birther, First One, Original Giver, Primordial Cause, how often have you groaned in your labor pains? In ours, so many cries of infinite pain for infinite wants meant to dazzle our souls for a brief time. Now, how will you answer each and every one? Amen.