The pen groans across the page in birth
the ink longs for life
the watery darkness that came first
before all things, shapes into song.
They come, called from the rowan wand.
The between of their shoulders
sweaty from birth labor
they are singing a child’s song,
shaped from darkness, scrawled across
the page, my ears ringing
from their shouts–,
they are calling, calling,
calling to be made.
They crawl closer, on old men’s knees
half formed and impatient in my thoughts,
They come, fists trying to shake dust from the sky
their questions sharp weapons
they say they’ve come to wage war
lowly creatures on a torn page.
They come, called by my hand.
The between of their shoulders
sweaty from labor,
bodies folding at the middle
heaving and pulling,
sweaty, old words, old ideas,
yet I am told these old men and women
they will help me find myself when I am ready,
they will teach me to have my hand steady
on my own hammer
the blows landing softly
as I slowly form my own face.
