"Every time I planted a seed, he said kill it before it grows" --Bob Marley
Here is your cradle, narrower than a matron's squint.
Worlds have been birthed from less.
Tilt your tarmac cap, child.
Suckle from stars a foreign milk
from saudade milled.
Here is your birth-door, jagged as a shiv,
and your unseen bloom, opening in spite of itself,
a spirit shaken loose, dumb with innocence,
just holy enough to make someone want to kill it.
for Sunday Muse #157.