The Birth of a Child

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,

and pain.

DSCN1607

Mitchell
April 25, 1991

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About Jean

Trying to make sense of it all and . . . for the most part . . . doing it. View all posts by Jean

16 responses to “The Birth of a Child

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