Happy Birthday

The Mother is the first great mystery:

pervasive, warm, concealing life, she bounds

a universe without a history—

or so it thinks. She moves, and it astounds

a world unnamed, like God—like gravity.

I move, therefore I am; I think I am.

You move, therefore I am. You are; I’m me.

We’re extant, one, discrete… You are I am.

I cannot say if that is what I thought,

though thinking of it drove me ’round the bend.

We strained, and cursed, and pushed, and pulled, and fought.

How could I know or tolerate the end?

To my surprise, it was not death, but birth.

I would not give my Mother up for Earth.