Songs of Love

Take the long road toward the mountains,
turn left at the church, and again at the mailbox,
onto the dirt road covered with snow
that leads to the musical green house
secluded from the world:
here, a baby boy is born into the water,
wise-blood from heaven
flowing through his Inuit veins.

In the caul, he comes,
protected from drowning,
in the morning when the sun is rising,
but the full moon still shines
white, full and gorgeous
like the belly of a pregnant queen
reigning over the Rockies
and the dark-green pines of January.

His sister, sweet Caroline, the first duet
of the bassoonist and trombone player,
is watching as he slides into the midwives’ hands
and then into his mother’s arms
as she cries from relief and joy
and his father looks on, happy and proud,
and these songs go into the doors of his ears,
this love into the halls of his soul.

II.

I go outside to post the sign on the door
that tells the world he is here!,
and his first visitors are three chickens
who have flown over the neighboring fence
from the farm of their Russian owners,
flapping short wings against stout bodies,
all excitedly asking if their eggs, given to the mama,
brought forth a strong baby.

Oh, yes, nine pounds and alert, I tell them,
as they crowd toward the door,
wanting to go in to see the newborn,
and I have to explain
that the inside of the house
is not for chickens,
but I promise to tell the family
that they knew and they came.

I smile as I return to the birth-room,
for their intuitive knowing,
through the power of Nature,
has touched my heart.
Soon, Grandma and Grandpa come, too,
and sweet Caroline runs to them,
and asks, her face glowing,
“Have you seen my baby yet?”

Yes, we have seen you, little babe, strong boy,
and planted your placenta in God’s earth,
welcoming you with songs of love.

Jane Beal
1.10.12 – Arvada, CO

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