Waiting

I have not seen the images that fortell this child to be
held snugly in the womb until the time is right to set her free
But I’ve been told that she will be with us in winter
and so I think of her mother, fragile as a pink lily
sepals of fine hair brushed into a spikey-do, snug
in her papa’s sinewy arms, an earlier child of winter.

Unable to penetrate her life, now in a far northern place
I imagine her, regal, tossing her mane of fiery red hair
as she hurries to the market to buy a fish to nurture
the tiny creature swimming under her heart
waiting for her time, the birthing hour when blue white milk
will replace the forces that now pump nutrients into her child.