Mourning for the Shadows

Curled in the ancient womb of dark,
The soul becomes restless
and begins to stretch --
an arm here,
with fingers poking at the edge of light,
a foot there
(toes, wiggling in the fluid space,
testing the waters
before leaping into dawn).
And yet, when morning comes
and sun ignites the sky,
sending smoke signals scurrying upward --
as if to say, "A new day has arrived!" --
She takes that first deep breath;
cries out one last lament
in mourning for the shadows.

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