Reconstituted

From the book about witches slips an ad

For packets of instant amphibian:

Just add water.

You pause to consider.

“Only a mommy frog can make a frog,” I explain.

“But who makes the mommy frog?” You ask.

“Her mommy, of course.”

You show mercy and fold the ad away,

Leaving for another day inquiries into

The conception of the primal polliwog.

Explanations about origins are all speculation

But a parent must try

To crumble creation

Into bites that can satisfy a child.

Everything here, every planet, moon and sun

Every bit of matter that would ever be

Every single molecule of you and me

Was all curled inside one single seed

Drifting in the bottomless black sky.

When it blew, the clay of us

Hurtled aflame through nothing

To alight on one reaching edge

And ride.

Galaxies brush crumbs from their knees

And here you are, next to me,

The crystal dust of Saturn's rings.

You are made of stars.

 

That ancient, flaming rain made the first mommy frog,

Her eggs

Her hunger

And the very question of beginnings

Taking shape in your mind.

Instant life, indeed.

Powder, water, a single flash of magic

And the long breath

Of anticipation

As you see what the spell begets.