Making

Before this life,
we were but dark,
open, quivering.

Inside a planet
not unlike the cell,
a secret dream

is forming-

the tiny shell
that holds
so many things.

Who could know
that life was pleased
by "making"

that it gave
the "made" ability
to make itself?

And what of
suffering, when
shells are emptied

every gathered property
expelled: its light,
its well-earned love?

This is self-less;
making room for
something else.