Birthday

By Sue Cowing

A poem is a baby slowly forming

in the fluid inner world:

toes out of nowhere,

eyelashes out of heartbeat.

Like a dolphin, born tail-first

so it won’t drown

in a world of water.

Then someone, is it the mother?

nudges it to the surface, crooning 

breathe now, breathe.

 

 

 

 

from Bamboo Ridge

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