On dayspring
my roots did not
clutch life.
It was then
that I sprouted
into desolation
and compost.
I was a tiny fetus,
dejected
and algophobic.
A mothers gift to her son.
Light did not compel me
to sprout when I was
expelled from her womb:
a thunderbird
turned inward
and huddled
within an iron shell,
peeking
through my spyhole,
profoundly vigil.
On dayspring my spirit
was birthed a stillborn.