2015-04-03 07.50.10

Pink Moon.

Egg moon. Fish Moon. Flower Moon. Duck moon. Easter.

The month of sex and birth and rebirth, all jumbled together.

Flowing and flying and flowering.

And with all of this change, the snow melting and wildlife moving and plants surging from the earth (daffodils! tulips! not yet flowering, but soon), my own body has grown still. My hips don’t ache the way they did a month ago. I have a little more space to breathe, a little more room for food, since the baby has settled as far down as it can go. My due date, arbitrary as it may be, was four days ago, and while my brain, the “I” of myself, is restless and anxious and frustrated, my body and baby seem content to wait for the right moment. So we make plans and follow through with them. Dinner with friends, errands, household tasks. The cabbage seeds I wondered if I would have time to plant have already sprouted in their little newspaper sprouting pots, the peppers and gooseberries, I imagine, not far behind. The baby’s quilt is finished, and the knit blanket widens as I knit around and around, counting the stitches like rosary beads, begun with only eight and adding eight more every other row—now 100 around, now 300, now 450.

I squat low, stretching toward the earth. I circle my hips, an awkward belly dance. I drink pints of raspberry leaf tea, eat black licorice, spicy food. I bake morning glory muffins and honey oat bread. I marvel that my belly has not burst open like an overripe plum. I welcome days without coats, days without mucky boots. I spy frost outside only early in the mornings. I point out to my son the flock of turkeys that loiters around our house, feathered tails flaring, fluttering on and off of fences. The worms in the soil.

Everything is changing quickly these days, and I feel like a stone at the center, still and unnoticed.

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