being the flow

the moon is almost full,
and so are my breasts,
but my womb
feels empty still,
like the fallow earth,
waiting for its time
of renewal
and rebirth,
tilled by
an unseen hand,
shedding
wasted clots
of blood
and unused tissue,
of dreams seeded,
and then shattered,
over and over again,
all for one life,
and my breath
suspended
in a cocooned moment
of this bloody painful
yet joyous and alive
human existence.