My womb is a saloon of pure twilight,
yet the lamp of breaking dawn.
Longing for no fruit like bitter apples,
but for all the daughters and the sons.
Recalling a colder winter, my mind holds doubt
like an axe that cuts the cord.
Yet, my heart is a crafty weaver
mending together all the fabrics
whether tattered or even torn.
Then one day I gave birth to an ocean
in the shipwreck of my days,
and I let go of sorrows lonely helm
reaching out my hands to pray.
Now my hips have beheld eternity.
The echo of eons past, yet future’s song.
For my womb is a saloon of pure twilight,
and the lamp of breaking dawn.
Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #13 (Gordon Lightfoot)
Image Source Photo by Rachel Claire from Pexels
