Musings #30


No more will ever come up and through,

like breath from navel to crown.

Surrounding me, the scratch and spill,

ink-staining on the drawn blank.

I am barren, at last croned. No more pushed

down and out, body splitting like a seed.

Unhurried, Turtle whispers, gestate.

The “oh!” Something is becoming.

Tumbling at the end of an untangled knot,

the poem: an ear waiting in the swell.