She curls up into herself
thinking of this shape and position;
something of a more comfortable state.
She remembers the dark,
the slurred sounds and warmth
in another time, other place.
She is struck with a bright light, fire
and cry, the first loud sound of her voice
and opens bright eyes into a new world.
Birth and renaissance aren't too different;
in one you have no volition and in the other
you are of ashes building into feathers.