The Birth Pangs

It is now.
The call of unknown.
A doting mother?
writes a child.

I am, collecting?
the words. To speak for the
death, which was hestitant
to come,
against the will of grass.

The grassroots diplomacy,
catches the wind.
Abandons the footpath,
goes to the marbled floor.

What do I do?
at dusk? Become wordless
like a deep sea?
waiting for the moon
to bring the tides?