Midwife, Waiting

                          I need a place without debris,

                          a beach perhaps in winter

                          where the working sun can cover

                          bright cold skin. I need

                          a place with water

                          sitting still, perhaps frozen,

                          but at any moment ready

                          to spring into the beauty

                          of a pond. I need to

                          walk farm rows to the edges

                          of the field, follow

                          rustling koans of  paper leaves

                          which flap their faces about

                          how we survive and why

                          we turn to life when winter’s

                          gone. Grace of cloud language

                          falls off the tongue like

                          weary breath. Hunger is

                          what we need—the tenderness

                          of darkness when spring

                          is near, when crocus buds

                          restrain their heads from

                          crowning too soon, when

                          days crawl by at the pace

                          of the moon, the pace

                          of fingernails, the pace

                          of anxious breathing.