Tender

Perhaps it is the strength of my Norwegian bones
that unleashes the tremors
when green is overfilling the places
between leaves with more green.

The allure of the longest day
thunders in my head
like a voracious hunger
that only light can satisfy.

My body aches with the echos
of a mournful, empty sob
of relief after months
of so much blinding white.

I sweep my arm along my face,
over my ears at the buzzing and bites
that begin to itch.
My hands useless
covered with dirt
that was found
where pumpkins
and sunflowers
will germinate.

The tender roots
rivulets of life
in the warm soil.

Here I watch the ghosts
of my love flow past me
chanting an ancient familiar song.

Death is a false door
to this Valhalla.

The Day You Were Born

On the day you were born
nothing ordinary happened.

Even while the moon
turned to golden blood

and the horizon
was only a flimsy diversion
to all the pain of every birth,

I pleaded with the heavens
to release me from the grip
love held on my tired womb.

The residue of God
could not be washed away
even in the dark waters
of knowing everything
would eventually end.

This ticking clock of my body
sounded and the bells rang out
to announce your arrival
on a path we have all walked.

We didn't know it then,
but it was the birds who knew your name
before you arrived with the feathers of angels
imprinted on your feet.

It was the birds who sang loudest of all
pointing at the red heart fluttering in your chest
like it was the first day of spring
in the first garden every dreamed.