I try not to cast too much shade.

Sin would be

to use the excuse

of her growth in my womb,

to imagine her as a limb of myself.

She is her own tree,

late-winter's indomitable shoot.

She takes cupfuls of sun.

I stand well clear

as the branches stretch

like flutes playing allegros.

Not for anything

would I poison her

with an act of possession,

conceal her from the woodsman

whose task is to make room for all.