by Annelinde Metzner
Midsummer sun on raspberry,
the spiced scent of fern, the color of red clover.
There is no better place, no holier ground than this.
And what is near you? What grows by your door?
How you longed to be here, those nine months in the quiet room,
all suspense and expectancy, a few noises and bumps.
Your first aroma, new to breathe air, was luscious as this:
raspberry, fern, Mother’s blood, her milk, her musky skin.
The vision came and went as you gazed.
Here today, it’s new green berries tight as Chinese soldiers,
apple leaves against July’s blue,
and darker in the shade, the mysterious abyss.
That first day, Mother’s soft face came and went,
and each gaze another joy,
a bit of the immense puzzle you came just to experience.
With hunger and thirst, with tongue and lips,
our loudest “yes!” we sing.
Draw to your heart the new life, the new places of each day!
Draw into your soul the warm flesh of being,
her musky skin, her colors.
She is not going to disappoint you.