Lactation precedes this dictation but nowhere is expectation
As high as with the internal leave-taking of the senses, this mother
Of creation, this happenstance of understanding. Lactation
Underwires the triumphant return of mistakes which bless
This tundra, replete with the ice of hardened experience.
This return solidifies the maternal in me, the show up
And fight, the wrestle and meander in me, provoking
Such stiff yards of immigration that I am easily pushed over.
I am pushed over, I fall over in this triumphant return.
The overwhelming pull of gravities strange and immeasurable
Leaf me into the hardware of great joy, my body surrounded by
The snow and ice, melting the cold with my warm back.
I look up, a triumphant return at hand:
There you are.

(C) Isaac Beekman