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Sitting here waiting—
fogged brain,
like an anxious womb,
craves impregnation of creativity—
pleading the inner genius there of
to usher in the labor that issues the birth
of the long awaited poem.
It’s soon painfully realized
that poetry is nature
and nature is poetry—deciding
when and where the midwife of revelations
will be called to delivery.
The crisis of unawareness cured—Awareness.
I now cheerfully labor in tender contemplation;
the spirit of nature’s midwife soothing my suffering
with the coming joy of the birth of motherhood.
