Saturday, April 21, 2007


It was a memory of yielding and of peace,
One of being contained and protected,
And we know nothing matters anymore.
We're safe inside the liquid womb,
Sinking near its murky bottom.
I mumble small comforts to the others,
Though my lungs are too wet
For me to even cough.
But it doesn't matter, I tell myself,
Until someone opens the door,
And they shake my shoulder.
And I am rescued for another day.

Copyright 2007, by Jon Gregory

No comments: