to the baby, and its babies:
  
   your birth,
      and the woman waiting for you;

they are waiting.



everyone, is waiting.

time, is waiting.

the sea, is waiting.

elephants, are waiting.

the cukes in the vat are waiting to be pickled..

the pickles are waiting to be traded for cash.
to become their own weight in gold.

and the money, is waiting to be buried back into the earth, as the earth sits in its own sort of waiting,
   knowing, that

even the end is waiting.

while nothing also waits for anything else besides the end.

i am three armadillos.

one that tucks and hides,
rolls away if it has to.

one, who fights and stands, rears on its haunches, exposing its softness, ready to live and to do the opposite of living.

and one who knows, it is just a fiction,
in some song or meditation or some story, who has the upper hand on its brothers,
who seem to think that they are whatever the opposite of fiction might seem to be.