It was not quite spring, it was
the gray flux before.
Out of the black wave of sleep she turned,
enormous beast,
and welcomed the little ones, blind pink islands
no bigger than shoes. She washed them;
she nibbled them with teeth like white tusks;
she curled down
beside them like a horizon.
They snuggled. Each knew what it was:
an original, formed
in the whirlwind, with no recognitions between
itself and the first steams
of creation. Together they nuzzled
her huge flank until she spilled over,
and they pummeled and pulled her tough nipples, and she gave them
the rich river.
Mary Oliver, 1935-2019 – “Snow Moon – Black Bear Gives Birth” from Devotions: Selected Poems
Leave a Reply