Again the clay, again the seed and womb
And cradle, pregnant by and with herself;
Again the shell: the ****** in bloom;
Again descendant from the leafy shelf.

The seedling, memory in shallow birth,
Sprung only from the tree she will become.
Roots where she bent her elbow from the earth:
The hardy hand that holds the apple's thumb.

Again the root, again the stem and breast
and pram; what loves the tree if not the sprout?
The hand-me-downs again are hemmed and dressed
Again the boughs will flourish up and out.

The poet, reaching skyward now as then,
Is just a little bough again, again.