poem on mundane miracles
I’ve seen my children born after ages
of my lover’s suffering; my daughter’s
first post birth act was to terrify me
with her blue gray skin.
Second, she coughed, gasped, wailed
as expert hands drew fluid from her mouth.
Third, she pinked up quick enough
to shame any chameleon.
Then I could breathe, welcome and name her.
I was handed shining scissors,
shown where to safely cut the twisted cord.
Finally in her mother’s arms,
Cally had thick, dark hair that
spiraled, drew me to that place
which has no name.
As a man I have no womb,
yet we all carry cauldrons deep inside,
to catch the life we swim in,
concoct surprises, sacred truths
and holy lives. Where else could
our best moments come from?
When I sit against a tree I feel
cool clear blood moving in currents
beneath the bark, somehow flowing
up, down, all around.
Osmosis, capillary action, respiration
and other schoolhouse words.
Soil and water meet the light,
quickening to life behind our backs.
It always seems to happen
just beyond our vision.
~ Wry Welwood
written 1990 something,
edited April, 2021