At the Cabin
Waiting for my Daughter’s First Birth by Kate Kingston A web of trees, this Wisconsin sky, and me, down here, lying in the cold sand, staring up through black arms wishing for anything with color, maybe a male bird with a streak of red under its wing or a moss rose pulsing its tough bud into blossom. This grey is appropriate for the mood of waiting, for the distillation of anxiety. It puts angst to sleep, wears the dampness of leftover rain. Even the longhand of my pen slants downward as if these words were a newborn slipping from the womb into light. Return to:
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