A preludium of a morning.
The sudden sound
of the calling bell.
A woman's waterline
breaks through the walls.
The rowing of
the midwife commences.
Charting transitions
by its miniscule degrees, integers.
Looking in on the mouth
of the womb as holy land.
Negotiating with the flustered ******
coaxing her widening.
The gated reverb of labor
is a miraculous performance
unique to each woman.
Earth shudders,
believing the restless hour
to be an act of God,
come hither in the shadow
of expectation.
A pantomime then between
midwife and mother.
Stage directions float
above the frightened audience.
Each hour is a little war.
But love of this nature
is an underwater dancer,
it asks you to trust the danger.
The ripples.
The siege.
The arrival.
A time of quiet.
"Beginnings are such delicate times."