I believe this. I sing yes to the flower before
the earth unclenches what is in her fist— a
crib to lie down in / a book of women &
men passing down to a generation
reappearing, a dream & torch of the
mountains. I said to myself, the river: I am in
the world, let every brown land & dead
body come to me— fetch of my rainbows &
the fires in their hearts; let sealed languages
of grace become burst sunflowers in their
first experience of time & water. Is this not
power of the day unto the unborn?