Poezja

You dig in your heels, 
when blood spills 
under the skin. 
 
Refuses to go, the homeless moon, 
I will call the snow to cover the sod. 
 
Scavenging, 
through the stray thoughts, you 
pick up the threads, to knit― 
a scarf for the poem. 
 
Body born, a planet 
breaks, in your epic. The ivory 
shaving will make a white gold. 
 
The birth pangs start in natal pain.