Photo by AndriyKo Podilnyk. Creative Commons.
What were the woods like on the day you arrived?
Did the moon throw its silver down upon the breast of the clearing,
betting which of you would be fairer and brighter?
Did the redwoods, steaming in the summer night, hold their breath
so their next lungful would be spiked with your newborn scent?
Did all the fantastic animals -- the basilisks and cockatrices,
sphinxes and griffins -- spread their wings wide over the smoky loam
and wait for the new beast to join their ranks?
(Did the Blemmys purse his belly’s lips and bend down to kiss
the soft crown of your hour-old head, dusted with gold silk?)
Did the low creek wish it were full and rushing, spilling its banks
strong enough to carry you in your cradle
like the captain of a wicker-woven ship speeding toward the sea?
Did the scuttling insects of the deep earth construct
a tiny castle and wait for their cochineal king to take his throne?
None of these, more likely;
but the blazing July sun, which learned its light from your eyes,
would have understood if the night had stepped aside
to make way for your foot’s first fall.