BORN


I am making my way up a hill
covered in stubbled, straw-colored grass,
the light indiscriminate, lovely,
as my son is born, walking and talking
beside me.

He has been born many times before,
into matter and gravity, into blood, into air.
Born into vision, milk, word and song.
He has been born from the space inside me
to the space outside, from beside me
to across the room, and out the door.

Today, just as we come to our own reflection,
he is born again—as he will be, over and over—
into himself.


appears in
Liasons II: The R.D. Lawrence Commemorative Anthology