Labor of Love

There are times when her head
Falls back heavy and slow
Sinking into the plushy depths
Of the couch cushions, 8:30 pm.

Beer still in hand, not quite empty
On is the televised soundtrack of
Mental tranquility

Her brand of desperate solitude
Offers an alternate plane of
Consciousness, where reality
Presents itself in a more beautiful
And dramatic mirage: surreality.

Events once truly experienced return
With a clarity and rawness not fully
Actualized until now: The birth of child
Times two.

The pain, wonderfully empowering
And the process: A transformation of
Perspective and chance.

Panting and moaning, reliving it all, now.
Outside of the body, she sees herself
As a beautiful vessel, large and openly organic
Grace and endless love, entirely selfless

In Nature.

It is as if she is pouring herself into another,
In order that they may simply, BE,
Thick and whole.

In the end, there is Existence.

A mixture of emptiness and loss blended
Well with joy and wonder of her blessed
Gift, all-consuming.

Shiva-like change is both restorative
And destructive

Her head lodged tightly in a square of the sofa
And her heart plunged deeply in a memory,
She labors.

This, she believes, is a labor of love,
Moreover, it is a love of labor.