The Second Seeding

Now, quick make women's work of our selves:
Stretch skins that will not, supple, split
From richness of all things contained: seed and blood
And need, and all such nourishment. Our herd
Is on the move, the god herd; it shakes itself
Beyond our fires and from its home dark
Comes to trample. Goddess; all things tidal
Rise to your return; the We reweaves
Its wickered self to webs of resonance
Where even gods can surge and, safe, be held.

Help us hold, hold, hold the fecund morphogenic field
Till universes bulge in us, and we expend
Their luscious babble into birth like galaxies
Of voices found, a bioluminescent Pentecost.

Joe Wrobel