In pockets of the body, soft as dawn,
creation hums in inverse tune:
not thunder, but the pulse of a seam
mending the world inside the womb.

We grow not in fire, but in the hush
between breaths, where light dares to hold
what shadows fear to name.
—
In the smallest of breathings,
the universe learns to trust the hands
that shape it, one slow, deliberate petal.