Holding My Grandson, Come to Land This Morning
I swaddle you tight to mimic the watery womb
of your metamorphosis,
where you emerged, tugged by froggy legs
from your mother’s belly
not two hours ago.
The doctor cut you free from the enchanted pond
of your gestation and laid you on her chest,
a lump of jelled flesh held together by waxed skin,
where you flopped and twisted, mired
in the glue of gravity.
Our pulses beat in and out of sync,
yours rushes, then slows,
the irregular breaths sighing minuscule protestations
at having to force the nothingness of air
into damp lungs.
Your amphibious eyes, liquid blue, squint and blink,
unused to light,
while your mouth works like a tadpole’s on the side of an aquarium,
you are hungry, hungry for milk,
the potion that will complete your transformation.
I cradle you, my hatchling child, and ponder
what your birth reveals about origins;
how water is our first world, then air, then earth,
and it is left for us to tell how we have tried
to solve the mystery of fiery flesh
that welds us to the ground and
subtle spirit that lures us up to seek
what came before and
what is yet to come.
Judith is a confirmed desert rat and plant junkie from Phoenix, Arizona. She holds a certificate in creative writing from Phoenix College, and serves as a master gardener with the cooperative extension. She also indulges in a passion for the Native American flute, but loses regularly in contests with the mockingbird in the backyard.
