Birth

Birth Cold. Turning I see them standing there. Seperated, sequestered, alone. Cold. Veins of black run through, in stark contrast to the white. Speckled, polished, hard. Cold. They inhabit a world of warmth, of love, of joy. Red, Orange, Yellow. Warm. Their marble hands outstretched, reaching. For warmth, for love, for joy. Warm. The sky, streaked with black, turns Orange. The sun rises, the light comes, the warmth fills. Life. Stalks spring, Red petals grow Together, through their rock hard toes. Birth. A majestic world, of fresh beginning. Full of Red, and Orange, and Yellow. Existence. Where we turn from statues to beings. Beings filled with Red, Orange, and Yellow.