American Yak

Each soul comes,
like rain from dearth, to
torrent,
one after another,
birth to birth, to
Cradle, bed, manger,
basket, box, crate,
hamper,
bassinet,
can,
earth.
Denied or accepted, each
infant in turn, comes
praising,
its maker, marked
by its birth, its
infinite worth, from
Mother, Father, God,
celebrated or cursed,
Each soul recreated, the
seed tendered, imparted
in pleasure and pain,
that remaking of making,
soft and cured,
broken and pure,
appreciated, or
sometimes hated,
spoiled.
Each babe comes,
as time advances, at
autumnal or vernal equinoxes,
in other seasons,
at common times,
and even holiday.
I stopped as Christmas approached,
to wonder over the birth of
the children,
and heard a million,
no, more,
children sleeping, living, dying,
laughing, crying –
some torn
from the flesh, and
wasted,
stilled,
consumed –
others wanted.
Each soul comes,
like snow,
to its bright day
and dark night, like
Jesus,
under a new star,
celebrated each year,
in awe or aspersion,
acrimony or adoration,
to live life to a
measure,
full, or interrupted
by those who live on.