The Corridor

In a long concourse, 

In a big hospital,

I spied a man pushing an

Empty gurney. 

As I came closer I saw  it carried a small clump of  brown fabric

Which suddenly moved!

A tiny soul nested in a soft blanket

On the expanse of pure white sheet, 

Kicking small legs and cooing small coos from tiny pursed lips. 

How carefully the attendant stepped to safeguard his precious load.

And behind him, a woman pushed a bulging carriage,

Completing the makeshift entourage. 

And Then, 

Approaching us down the sunlit hall,

Appeared an aged Nubian Queen being borne upon a liter.  

She was a bright jewel, her hair tucked into a many-hued headwrap,

Her robe glowing carmine and blue. 

She sat regally as if in a palanquin,

So surrounded by her Tribe that it was 

Impossible to see the means of her transport. 

She hovered, 

As if on a cloud of white. 

She cast her gaze upon the wriggling infant 

And saw the genesis of life. 

Her eyes softened and her round wizened face broke into a gentle smile

As she nodded a silent blessing from the old to the new

As they both traversed the

Fragile Intersection of  

The Corridors of

Life 

and 

Death.