i wonder that the sky rolls
cleft the darkening earth,
beyond my babbling prayers,
smoothly over my keening
like river over rock.
we are small matters, we are infinitely
finite--
the finite winged, flown
-- now impossibly vast
in closure of the warm mouth of daylight
against the naked body of eve.
the tidal earth is turned, and i am--
i am flight, my feet wrapped in bandage.
the murmur of my veins shushes stars,
i wonder what you are.
the sun presses his warm head against
my white shoulder
like a sleepy child.
against my agony he reclines easily,
i burn through evening-tide--
his glorious features aloft.
i will carry him this way if he like:
this is what mother's do
--though our arms may be full of fire.
Maggie M. Ethridge
