The Gift

Written for a friend’s daughter, who almost didn’t get here. She is a beautiful 8 year old girl who really is just happy to be here and has no idea of the battle she fought just to be among us. Her name is “Zori”, btw….

 

Delivered on a glass platter

hovered between the heavens and the Earth

suspended by a silk string

carried the weight of her world

like the whispers of a soft violin,

strands stretched from Michelangelo’s brush

to the veins on her tiny ankle

played

a music barely audible from beyond silent prayers and incubator breaths

of that lonely room—

it rejoiced as well as cried a distressed, desperate wish:

I’ll do anything.

 

she barely recognized the clear umbilical lifeline that fed her

quite different from the last

they both lead to a bag but…

the last one was warm

this one’s cold?

taught her how fragile

the outside world is

and it’s asking if she’ll stay

suspended in the brittle balance of all we take for granted

 

see, she’s just happy to be here

if only she knew

unaware of the stressful struggle

the battle she fought during the dawn

in that cold and sterile, unforgiving mausoleum

where she dared to arrive before they said she should

and she finds the sun warmer

the water sweeter

the music more soothing

she knows life is a much better place

where that glass coffin that became her throne

was quietly caressed in the strong, powerful palms

of God himself

and He gave her undignified arrival

a welcome party that’s never ending

she enjoys her luck-zorious life

winking back at Him, she sings:

I made it!

 

And so she did….

 

 

 

The Gift

 

© 2010

He Spit Fire