I am the one that holds the memory of
what it was to be nothing, and yet I sprout
from it. I am Jupiter – six places away
from the sun – cold, vast, shiftless.
Wayward comets crash into me and I barely
notice. I feel so far from nought &
nothing; their round shiny faces, seem so
far away. Yet, I am always in that
state of sprouting, always in that
memory of birth.
My little, humble birth …
… no manger for me,
no three kings, no incense, no gold, no myrrh,
no murmur, no lowing in the dark,
just the call of the moon, to come out,
to see it, to sprout.
… when the moon lay
a clear-cut path across the waves,
when stepping down into the shell,
sudden-pulled by loop-hugging dolphins,
when stepping into the shallows of the sea.