Poetry: The Child of Creation


Alive and vibrant, existing only

In the future, fragile in cold climates,

Invisible in the present, leaving

Signs of strain like an impending temblor.

One slow day the child awoke inside me,

Drove me to piano or pen, shook me

Until I was able to translate puffs

Of phrases into something I could sing.

In the hypnotic spell of engagement

I played with my child until a shower

Of glass punctured the walls of the cocoon,

As the present tried to force its way inside.

In defiance I shielded my brave child,

Finding refuge from my failed confidence.