Cycles

This day eight years ago,
my belly swelled
like the sun, my belly

tight, lightning,
enzymes and blood and
movement

gravity doing her fine work,
just dancing,
celebrating the pilgrimage

water through a straw
the monitor of a pulse
sterile floors

when you flew into the world
the clouds opened
the rain sang

when you flew into the world
the light was open
a slip, water off a leaf

unexpected and true,
the light of Saturday,
rain after months of drought

the clouds swirl and shift
a shuffle of light and dark,
your breath

like thunder, your breath
of decades and battles,
planes that

fly over Belgium, planes
gunned down while you
slipped out

unscathed, would we all
have such fortune,
children and grandchildren

their volume swollen
rainbows, thunderstorms,
puppies and currents

tectonic plates,
the spirits of wolves and
desert coyotes

wild rabbits that drt
across drivewarys,
the moose you stood beside

in Jackson Hole, both of you
so quiet, so confident,
moving stridently through
this world.

Life is opening and closing
like sunshine,
like the old silver wristwatch

like her little baby
hands, like his gnarled
yellow toes, like the

rise and fall of sunshine,
the way water releases
back into the earth
after rain.