My friend announced, on Saturday morning, 
that the water had broken – his son on his way
earlier than expected. Just like that, he would become
a father – an instance of unsheathing, the child
entering the fluorescence of the theatre,
taking his first breath on the other surface
of the flesh-veil. Life can be so simple – 
a firm "yes". The tide, once swept ashore,
leaves something of itself in the sand. 
Van Gogh painted Almond Blossoms 
when he heard of his nephew's birth,
tiny white fists curling and uncurling in the blue,
like those of the boy. Once, an expanse of canvas,
now something occupies the space – inhaling 
and loosening its first shout, flowering across the page.