In the card(s): an unborn’s ultrasound surprise
White roses on a field of blue
each petal lined in gold,
inside the card a glossy print
an ultrasound so bold.
Sweet mystery of feathery light
that showers a sky so black,
come January ‘21
there is no turning back.
Your eyes will shine, hands, fingers, toes,
we’ll gaze, touch, hold them close,
your birth, one moment, is for good,
despite our mortal clothes.
Small wonder you will come to us
and prompt us more toward love
that sea within our hearts more vast
than we’ve been dreaming of.
The body breaks yet is the soul
of perpetuity,
just as the violin’s sweet notes
transcend the instant, flee.
So when you come to us, your breath
will bless the air we breathe
and we will sing again new songs
that you will us bequeath.
Suite for Sachi (born Jan. 7, 2021)
You’re here!
The whole sweet suite of you:
prelude and allemande,
courante and sarabande,
gavotte and gigue—
your lively dance has just begun.
For now, all’s quiet on the couch.
Asleep and swaddled to your chin
we see the half-moon of your face,
your minion mouth and nose,
the little mounds of cheeks and eyes
beneath the yellow, knitted cap
against blue velvet sofa back;
and curious Fauci standing by
on high alert to sniff the air
and wonder why and who you are.
Perhaps you’ll never know how much
you’ve touched us since that sunny day
when we first saw your meteor flash
across the ultrasound’s black sky.
But now you move us all the more,
swaddle us, in fact—a balm
fresh from another world,
a breathing beauty-bud
that breaks grace open in our hearts,
a cherished treasure in our hands.
So here you sweetly are,
a song cocooned,
notes never heard before
that in their time will soar and sing
and we will clap our hands and loudly sing
and dance this joyful, mortal minuet with you.
Birthday
I was a gift to mother years ago,
seventy-four, to be exact, and she
turned thirty-five the day that I was born.
We keep close track and number years because
we are the briefest segment, nano tick
within the cosmic clock, a cry, a whisper,
joy that is composite with our loss,
and both affirm we are the slightest voice,
the merest flicker in the womb of dark
and universal silence—but that’s enough.
It is enough to feel the soil beneath my feet,
to breathe the air, the cleansing warmth of sun
and rain, all elements of faith and hope
and love that gather momentarily
within these sacred cells and sinews born
a child on this specific day at that
appointed hour within this given room
to these embracing arms and tender hands.
O mythic tree that pried earth-heaven apart,
I tend your garden world with grateful heart.
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