Due to limited control of our formatting on posts, the formatting of the following poem is incorrect.
the universe is a mother bird upon her nest,
puffy-feathered breast gently rising and falling.
beneath her vast plump belly
she warms myriad eggs
though remains alert.
(mothers know this fine art;
it is engrained deep in their souls.)
in her dreams she counts her eggs,
never once losing her place.
the last is an egg so perfectly shaped,
so wonderfully pristine.
she counts it.
and like a wave the rest follow,
each of them trembling
thin fast lines
rippling across the surface
preparing to burst,
the universe awakens
her eyes churning balls of flaming gas
spreads her wings,
dotted with shining
her children push free of her,
stumbling on tiny sparking limbs
star dust yolk still gloopy,
shimmering on their downy fluff.
eager to discover and nourish
the hungry young splinters
of cosmos within
Emmy Clarke (she/they) is an autistic writer and poet from Manchester. She lives in Shropshire with her partner, their smelly black cat, and three rescue chickens. Primarily, Emmy loves writing stories for children, but often her dreams will bless her with fully formed, cosmic poetry.
@emmyclarke_ | @starmaid | emmy-writes.com