Dear Child

You were born

in a late spring snow.

Already there were flowers,

robins – and then

there was you. Bloody

and undone like roots

dug out the garden bed,

raging and shining

and new. Like the crack

of the sun’s shell when the sun

was an egg. Like the flicker

of the sun’s wings

when the sun was a bird.

And to think that once

your whole body fit neat

inside of mine. Let us step

out the back porch

facing west. Look there

beyond tree line and see

the colors like a garden.

Watch them grow.