Friday First Drafts

This Morning Song

Your class sang of the hole in the bottom of the sea.
My arm ached from holding it aloft, camera-heavy,
just as I sometimes ache from holding you aloft,
you and your brother, so small and dense and full
of the life you have lived and have yet to live.

I birthed you.  An astonishing reality, some say miracle.
You emerged, not breathing, life-giving cord turned 
murderous, malicious intent pulsing along its every fiber.
The midwife's hands were skilled, her spirit alert to
your needs, she moved to save you, she birthed you too.

In the car this morning, you asked your brother
to look at your long legs, the way they reach to the floor,
almost, or stretch so far from the hem of your shorts.
I look each day and at the space your brother's toes
now touch in his bed and am quieted by your grace.


A little sentimental this morning, a little rushed.  As always, feel free to comment, make a suggestion, or participate on your own.  I will be glad to post a link.

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