Find and share the perfect poems.
Morning’s a new bird
stirring against me
out of a quiet nest,
coming to flight—
quick-changing,
slow-nodding,
breath-filling body,
life-holding,
waiting,
clean as clear water,
warmth-given,
fire-driven
kindling companion,
mystery and mountain,
dark-rooted,
earth-anchored.
All the things we hide in water hoping we won't see them go— (forests growing under water press against the ones we know)— and they might have gone on growing and they might now breathe above everything I speak of sowing (everything I try to love).
He is sleeping, his fingers curled, his belly pooled open, his legs gathered, still in their bent blossom victory. I couldn't speak of "war" (though we all do), if I were still the woman who gave birth to you soft-footed, with your empty hand and calling heart, that border of new clues. May the hard birth our two heartbeats unfurled for two nights that lasted as long as this war make all sands rage, until the mouth of war drops its cup, this bleeding gift we poured.
Moon that is linking our daughters’
Choices, and still more beginnings,
Threaded alive with our shadows,
These are our bodies’ own voices,
Powers of each of our bodies,
Threading, unbroken, begetting
Flowers from each of our bodies.
These are our spiraling borders
Carrying on your beginnings,
Chaining through shadows to daughters,
Moving beyond our beginnings,
Moon of our daughters, and mothers.