Waiting to Be Born

Waiting to be born,
into the morning,
onto the day,
from dark warm comfort,
of my bed full of sleep and blankets,
back into bright spring-scented air
with all its life and branches.
Waiting to be borne
into fresh vision,
onto clean spirit,
to a world of wordless resurrection
where life sits side by side with death watching
the rising and the falling of our many human breaths,
the daily negotiations of the indefatigable sun,
the pretty patterns of our slowly rotating stars,
the child-like candor of the bright unblinking planets,
glancing at each other, now, and then,
with peaceful eyes.