Newborn

A poem about... well, change.

Newborn

Some things never work.
There are defects in machinery,
loose screws in the mind-works;
what can you do
with the one bent spoon?
Do you throw it
back to the fire,
to melt…
to molt?
Make it into something newborn,
a green life, wet-slip skin
on folded wings,
ready to be stretched to the world
by gentle, they-are-the-everything-to-me hands,
they hold the world.

Can they?
Make me into something new.