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.