inside, the universe says:

there is a mother, and her child is small, and she is in a rocking chair sewing by a woodstove. there is snow outside. she is making a quilt for the horses, it is made of oak leaves and river waves. she is embroidering spider tracks. the birds and some bats sing her the story of our love, while she is picking raspberries, while she is watching shooting stars. she can feel the tender places, she can feel what it is to be eaten by wolves. she knows fragility. inside, her babe is alone.