Lily lies on the earth more lightly than morning,
open to the newness of this dawning day.
Her young breasts and thighs soften, they sigh
over the lost angularity of her body.
Blood weaves a lullaby into her womb,
teaching her to dance with the moon,
to ebb and to flow with the seasons, with tides.
A woman's hand cradles her head.
A woman's hand on her diaphragm
rises and falls with the rhythms of breath.
A woman's leg stretches luxuriously out from her hip,
but somewhere in her girlhood, a child's foot
tucks itself in under her knee, as if seeking
shelter within the woman she is becoming.