High Spring

Dawn child, my sleeping conscience, fearless, moving instinctively.
You are hope born enfolded in the veined translucent petals of men’s arms, obstinate.
If I could raise you awakening to the sea cries and the land cries…
I turn the earth with my hands, breaking the dry clods and plant my seed with trepidation.
Mothers know a common language in the moment of birth.