Fons et Origo

No cymbals pealed
        at my birth, no flurry
of doves released into the air.
        And the air did not
teem with loud punctuation, unless
        you count the insects
that flew where the sun couldn't reach
        the undersides of leaves.
What did love
        have to do with such
a beginning?
        A cloth of lace, a book
with fine print on thinnest
        paper. These are what
you might call the sentimental
        facts. I only wish
I could know what the clock
        said; who crimped
the cord that severed
        me into life.