There were tears of joy
There was a misunderstanding
implicitly (who was being born there?)
oh no, a simplicity...
There I was at the fount of milk
A strange woman with arms full
and red  screaming thighs
No need of words
just the heaviness of the breast

First smile, first migration of the soul
in the tearful land
of a new happiness
My baby’s laughter
unriddles the future
of my tender hands

“What is time, mama?”
“Just a circling seed, my child”
“Oh, mama, time is a wheel!”
“What is hope, mama?”
“Hope is a fly catcher, my child,
  a migrant bird.”

Such is happiness
undiluted
the mercy and gratitude of time
in my hardwood
love