there are tremors,
i am excited, yet afraid;
if there is to be an eruption,
will my will survive?
for now, the lava does not flow,
Eden’s garden still survives, and in
all the gardens of remembrance
every breath exigent held,
for at the cosmic edge,
in the universe of happenstance,
the geyser waters will be released,
and the words will then be born.
pace the waiting rooms of torsion,
give the love its tears of pain,
then if the birth is Apgar ten,
then once again, the golden pen,
will have delivered a royal scion heir,
to sit upon the throne of time,
to rule the poem-minded masses,
his words the jewels, in a crown divine.