RITE OF PASSAGE
We are alone in our birth as we are in our death
For in both we have lost our shelter.
The giving of life is a cruel beauty
Best well considered before its truth
Is painfully announced.
What was begun in pleasure now takes
Residence in the house of pain.
Long labor,
Wanting to be, but still uncertain
Of the challenge.
We can walk away from this giving
But its shadow remains ploughed into
The bloodied soil of our hearts.
My son,
I know that in your new life born
Mine is also born anew,
Yet in your first breath and cry I hear
An ancient herald announcing my last.