Deliberately

we close the door;

outside, sun and wind,

fields and farms;

inside,

so alone and so enclosed,

the Miracle;

eager, loneliness

bonds itself to her.

Why?

In the shadow of nothingness

some words provoke

other words

lined up like birds

waiting their turn,

happy or stubborn

—oh the choices!—.

The trial must be by fire 

and agony.

Afterward,

the retreat ended,

mysterious,

and born—how long it took!—

as if forged

from fire,

the happy poem.

“Mother gasping for breath,

Miracle—we say—

you are

life itself,”

but nobody hears it.

Deliberately

we close the door;

outside, sun and wind,

fields and farms.