I sense my hip-bones cradling
a secretive dark seed;
dormant in the cells it lies,
and does not cry nor bleed.
But like a sickle, like a scythe,
it undercuts my breath;
somewhere a midwife whets her knife
to hail the birth of death.
Six feet of clay is set aside
as bed for mortal flesh;
six feet of earth is all a pine
would need for sustenance.
Let it not be a sorrow tree
whose ribbons have been blessed;
let it become a tree of joy
that springs out of my breast.
Seed
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106112500604
Свидетельство о публикации №106112500604
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