“The Source of the Singing” by Marilyn Nelson Waniek

Under everything, everything
a movement, slow as hair growth,
as the subtle click of cells turning
into other cells, the life in us
that grows as mountains grow.
Under everything this movement,
stars and wind circle around the smaller
circles of the grass, and the birds caged
in the kitchen sing it over and over,
inexplicably in their sweet chirps.

I feel it like sometimes like today
somewhere in my torso, perhaps
sweet in the belly; this must be

what carrying a child is like.
I sit at a table and feel something
move with the pain of just before tears.
What is it the body says to me,
these tender aches that make me glad?
Not even one syllable is clear,
but if you were near I would tell you,
and you might lay your hand where the talking
starts and the pain, where my life
is still moving like an eaten live thing
and push your warmth into mine,
here, into the source of the singing.