Conception
Warm in its womb of mind a poem lies,
fluidly confined
diversities.
Woman with child I fare, our life apart,
my sense astray to hear
its beating heart.
Moments or months forget, time has no weight,
time is a play, and yet
the time is late.
Now it demands release, the right to be,
and will not give me peace
till it is free.
I am a husk, a shade, emotion dry;
this is the thing I’ve made,
the truer I,
This will chance. the way I shall not tread,
by sunlit paths or grey
how far ahead? ….
Touching other minds as strangers still
to gather as it finds
and take its fill.
My homestead ember burns, I wait alone
in faith the child returns,
a man full-grown.
Page(s) 12
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