The baby
Pushed from its mother’s womb
Cries angry tears,
Arms and legs writhe in discontent.
Our lump of clay, too
Raged at her birth.
Pushed out in a big bang,
Furiously tore her tectonic plates apart
Then slammed them together again,
Violently spewing burning anguish
From deep down in her belly.
The wrathful gods hurled meteors
At the tempestuous infant.
This was a difficult birth.
But the child grew calm and beautiful,
A face of blue and green,
Rich, resplendent and serene
She gave birth to life forms of her own.
Her pinnacle child,
With greatest promise and talent.
Her child who can love and care
And think and plan.
She must have smiled to watch him
Learn to walk
And play in her fields of abundance.
But now I look
And think I see
She’s starting to cry quietly.
I wonder how far can we go,
Before our Mother
Rages once again?
Read more poems by Sharon Heaney Stansfield
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