It wasn’t quite dawn on the day of the Lord’s birth
a light snow was falling and all the streets were quiet
She didn’t totally want to come out
And face what lay ahead
But the midwife was painstakingly persistent
A crowning for encouragement
Swords and knives, pins and needles, fire and ice
A head, a shoulder, a swoosh
and into this world from the ether
No going back
Jaundiced and propped on a windowsill
The day waned but…
she refused sleep
hungry and confused
What was this new cold place
No gentle floating bath
Milk refusing to come in but…
After 48 hours a gusher, an overflowing
A sustenance, a sleep so satisfying
An engorgement, Breasts turned to stone
A crescent rose but…
She refused to be beholding to the moon.
