I am we,
a walking duo,
living Russian dolls, one tucked within.
My little alien within,
growing like a snowball rolling,
rolling, rolling down the hill
while we watch over,
surprised when we shouldn’t be
by nature’s most natural, corporeal pattern-making.
No one ever told me
what it’s like to be we.
Perhaps they had no words for it.
or perhaps they take nature in stride,
whereas I lived cozy in abstraction.
Now in the midst,
I recall a storm on my river,
when we looked out and saw a cyclone,
drawing water and air into itself,
building, spinning power and vitality and character.
it didn’t exist moments before.
It says of all us
we are ‘knit together in our mothers’ wombs.”
That’s me: the womb host,
the knitting place.
My blood the threads, my nourishment the needles,
but His the hands, wondrously working,
As He says, “Behold, something new.”