BEGINNINGS

Sometimes
it takes a funeral
to bring a birth,
a death
before we live.

Mothers have
many faces
and forms,
doors to their arms
possessing signs
that the mind reads
with trepidation
as saying no trespassing.

The starting gate
for a race to the sun
never before seen
begins in darkness,
only visible to the heart
doing an imitation of a corpse
because fairy tale prophets
used as morticians
wrote their stories
using cancers as a morale.

Genesis is the morning
when we stop fearing paradise
and smell it with the soul,
taking toddler steps
where we thought a mine field dwelt.

Using a key from the light
we kept in a closet,
awakening in a crypt
turned into a cradle
unto a dawn,
overlooking a grave,
now a fertile furrow of seedlings,
holding a hose instead of a shovel.