I keenly watched the plates spin and spin and with them my house of emotion. The winds swept up my porch and broke into my home. Windows burst and walls cracked. Down the stairs crept a stray, feasting on the obscure, searching the pipes for warmth, chasing after any notion of life. As the roof lifted off its moorings I sat and watched. As the shutters tore off their hinges I leaned forward and surveyed the flowers. Turbulent times had plucked leaves from their stems, had wrenched pain from my heart. Still – outside the steady walls of a hidden chamber the winds subsided, withdrew at the muffled cry of a babe, so delicate and fresh, unblemished and whole, upending all movement, pausing, resting. The plates for one instance halted their cryptic grind. And nothing happened.

Still – I stood and observed the frozen scene, a landscape of my innermost: A house shattering, the walls peeling off, revealing the hidden chamber, the unseen child. Here I paint the flowers delicately, they remind me of my grandmother. She whispers in my ear, consoles me, as I cradle the child. All ruptures and expels outwards, and yet this heart of hearts remains untouched, is not breached, cannot die.

Child, the universe sends for you, gives rise to you. Life inside your infant body thumps. I hear it through the concrete walls, through the cracks, up the stairs, soaring, then tenderly brushing against my heart, speaking softly, providing solace. Should all plates break I will continue my watch. The winds will pick up again, the same play repeating. I know it. I trust it, though I do not like it. Eventually the winds descend, crawl back into a quiet space, lay down their lashes like the wrappings of a shawl in which I drape your tiny frame for warmth and rest. Sleep, little one, you are safe.