Every new poem, like every new day, like every new lamb, is a rewilding of the day, a slippery, messy baptism.  We witness each birth in the name of the day, quick again and grateful for it all.

 

Every Day Is a Birth Day

Lambing in the morning dark in the barn
feels many ways.
Deep,
gnurled,
and tall,
morning dark is the amniotic fluid of the day,
and then it is that breached sac of the day,
Quick to be.
We are born to this in a flood of life,
a flash flood of placenta and afterbirth and WTF,
a tumble of wet and bleating day a-born.
We mourn all the days that don’t survive
and celebrate all the ones that do,
witnessing
every bloody, meaty bit of it.