Birth poem: field
Caroline Klocksiem

The field blooms yellow
with pollen. Let me be
connected like this

wind-driven sheen and finally
let me be released
like God by rain.

Let the pine sister me. The columbine
mother. The color
yellow as solid as birth. Consistent
as something you cannot have. Released

like God from rain.
Unclaimable—the first light
blown into each infant’s
eyes. The light I
do not have.

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