It’s said that the circumstances of birth–
the day, the music, the time, even the particular position
of the stars far above our heads,
leave fingerprints on our newly blossomed souls.
When we open our mouths to gulp that first taste
of air– so sterile and electric,
Leto swaddles us in a blanket woven by the Fates
to warm us against this strange place of Cold and New.
“Good morning, Little Bull,” she whispered to me
as she planted my roots firmly in the earth.
Her hands built a mountain range in my spine
and laid a lake of fire in my chest.
Both of us born in the shadow of winter, when spring
is sometimes slow to bloom even as summer settles in,
I grew into Shakespeare’s sonnets and couplets
and found an early friend in flowering prose.
I like to think that Leto saw this as she rocked me–
knew that my then-sleeping breath would someday warm the clay,
dug from the shores of my heart,
that I used to build new worlds.