Then the voice came out of nowhere:
Now, you will have to mother yourself.
The words seemed to ride the wind,
rustling the new leaves on each tree-
its own kind of speech-then disappearing
as soon as those tiny green prayer flags
had settled again. I thought of blue eggs
tucked in the robin's nest I'd found
in a hedge just that morning, perfectly
polished and round, like pieces of sky
the mother had taken into her body
and made into a winged thing kept safe
and warm inside the shell beneath her.
Soft as feathers, the words floated off
to touch someone else who needed to be
nuzzled back into this moment, as a doe
will nudge her fawn with her muzzle,
as if to say: Stay alert. I am teaching you
how to pay attention to your life.
-James Crews, from Breathing Room
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