Prompt: 5 minutes to write about something being born.
Five minutes? To give birth?
It doesn’t take that long.
A crown appears,
a head bubbles forward and out.
There is great relief then,
before the shoulders fold up
between the pelvis bones
and the cottage cheesed miracle slips free.
Born.
Born?
Can a mountain?
When was Copper Mountain born?
Or Aspen?
Or Vail?
When did the universe cry out in agony,
spread her milky cloud legs and push?
When did that snow capped peak start to crown?
Did Mother Earth swing a great hand down
to touch the snowy fontanel?
This mountain’s immense shoulders –
who reached in to turn her face up?
Who shushed and sighed and cooed,
you’re doing such a good job.
Mama, remember to breathe.
And there was wind.
Mama, she’s almost here.
And there was rain.
And the dark of the earth released
this scrubby pine covered thing
called Mountain,
to stand tall in the light and to live.
