haibun: folded

I don't sleep much these days. Bright moon in maple outside the window. I lie still and the baby tightens and twists. My little one. Next week she will be born. I picture how she is inside me: cramped, now, folded, full, close. I picture her with dark, curly hair. I picture her with long, narrow feet. This is the truth: I picture her with wings.

Or -- as she is folded in me, growing soon to great for her waters, so something is folded in her. It is wings, midnight blue and full of colours. They are folded forward as the wrists may be crossed in front of the face. It is eyes, and although they are wing-covered I know they are all iris and yellow as lions.

And the folded thing is bigger than the thing it is folded into.

I do not believe in reincarnation, and I do not mean to suggest it. It is only my little daughter's own soul.

midnight
the moon pushing through
yellow branches