The WombThis is our bond, one with another.
We're fruit of a womb.
We have all been mothered.
Such intricate simplicity,
not a vestige of duplicity.
An instantaneous gasp to life
bequeathing beauty,
offsetting strife.
No fussing over surrogate, inseminate.
We love. We birth. We procreate.
The greatest joys a heart can hold,
are in these tiny babes you know.
Where has all our mothering gone?
Replaced by that awful aberration
"Abortion on demand,"
as it sweeps across our nation.
And that valuable word
we've seen fit to delete
from the fabric of our wooing - "indiscreet."
What happened to instinct -
in a God we trust,
to that crescendo of caring,
that love complete,
as those opening eyes and ours,
for the first time meet?
He chose a womb,
accepted the tomb,
shed the womb,
fled the tomb.
We leave the womb.
Can we burst from our tomb?
Hail the tail of a comet
sizzling by -
circle the moons, in an infinite sky.
The bell of Amherst's tale unfolds,
a wild night - a new road.
We're done with dallying, dawdling,
hesitant hedging;
Full speed ahead -
a new life is beckoning.
At last at last,
the master plan,
the tomb - our womb -
to a timeless land.
by Colleen Gordon