First fluid flows in trickling stream
then gushes in sudden drench
No longer pillowed inside,
pushed and sliding,
following the rich river
An unforgettable fragrance of birth,
the soak of pungent brine
clings to shoes, clothes, hands
as I reach, again and again, to embrace new life.
Remembering, I too was caught once;
three times emptied into other hands,
my babies placed wet on my breast,
their slippery skin salty to my lips.
Now only attending barn births,
in a moment’s whiff of amnion
the rush of new life
once more smells sweet and rich.
The scent of damp foal fur
reminds me of other beginnings:
I still float downstream
longing to be caught once more.