What is it about poetry that makes us feel so vulnerable? I haven’t written poetry for years, except for a couple pieces, but in my youth I wrote often. Not long ago, I ran across a poem I wrote in my adulthood. The thought of sharing it now scares me, though I’m not exactly sure why. It’s a little like singing in front of a crowd. Even after you’ve told them you can’t sing, once you get up there you are expected to at least carry a tune.
So here I am telling you that I can’t sing. This is just something I wrote years ago after my third child was born. I found, upon reading it again, that it moved me. It could have been any of my children, but for some reason I was inspired to write it at that time.
The Birth of a Child
All at once the pain subsided.
Relief wrapped its arms around me.
A baby boy was placed upon my breast;
warm, moist, perfect.
In his tiny presence
I felt small.
The debt was mine for the privilege.
I was perfect, the day was perfect,
and I shall never see another child as perfect.
He stared blankly at this world into which he had landed.
As I looked into his eyes,
I was at the same time reverent and frightened.
Not able to go back, not willing to move forward,
the world stopped for he and me.
And just for a moment, there were only the two of us.
Until they appeared again.
His father, the doctor, the nurse,