Winter Birth

Winter is not a season
but my glacial womb, the blue
 
ice that festoons my shoes, my toes
tapping as I croon: moon, moon,
 
send us some snow! I will not be born,
cannot live until a blizzard comes,
 
my father chopping blocks frozen 
by the side door, my mother’s contractions
 
coming closer, coinciding with the strike
of metal on stone. Usher me in—midnight’s 
 
         hush
 
deeper still in snow’s silence. Feathered 
dark, air sharp with chilled clarity.
 
Winter, my midwife.
Winter, the breathing season.

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