she rose up out of the mud
a slimy, yawning thing
her heart is bloody, soft, and pounding
fingertips brushing sharp tangy grass
crawl slowly toward the Light
little one. You are loved
the damp earth of morning
cradled in sunlight, she opens her eyes
for the first time, drinking
in the world
wobbling she stands
the strength of untested muscles, a surprise
smooth muddy skin
fragile as paper, sinewy as trees
fingerprints whorled out of nothingness
the sky stretched taut above her
unshattered blue sea
she is a half-made thing
an unfinished poem
a thought only just beginning to form
in the mind of her maker
beloved with eyes muddy dark
pure, but broken already
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