I sit in the womb of my mother.

She is in labor.

All work nervously round her,

some to help, some to hinder 

— for they hold too much pain, 

buried too deep within them,

to do otherwise. 

What she is carrying is the stuff of love and starlight.

It is me. It is you. It is tree and flower and rock.

It is deer and jackal, lion and lamb.

it is field and veldt and butterfly.

It is clear bright waters

and unspoiled wilds.

It is the peace of harmony

breathed through this new life

in amniotic waves.

And particles.

There is pain.

There is pressure.

The contractions come

fast, now, sharp.

It cannot be otherwise.

It is a natural delivery

and she is attended by

midwives and doulas

of great light, legions

of angels, celestial 

orbs of numberless,

fathomless worlds,

shining her on.

Hers is not a virgin birth,

for she has been seeded 

with humankind’s willingness

to wake up to the fear of our

own long shadow that’s 

held our spring so

long at bay; 

germinated by

our growing readiness 

to breathe in frequencies,

possibilities, as yet

unheard or seen or

even imagined.

She will birth heaven.

And all will be 

newborn.

—Eve Moore

**

Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.

This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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