to my unborn children

When you hold your baby,

when you look into her eyes and

she looks back without an ounce of fear and you know 

when you hold her

you hold your grandchildren

and your great grandchildren

the whole world, really

because what else is there except

to make meaning out of our loves

to find delight at every new word

to see your own face reflected in hers

to feel the summer earth beneath your bare feet

to hear laughter and crying

to laugh and cry and scream and be sleepless and elated

all together and

too close together for it to mean nothing.

So you make it mean something.

You say aloud to yourself

so you won't forget

I will rise above this pain, I will rise.

I will

choose love over indifference, I will

be surprised by small things

delighted and inspired

by fingers and elbows and

the smell of her baby hair and

the taste of the first snowflake and

heartbeats and the way the afternoon light is

just so across the living room floor—

These things, you will tell your child,

are the stuff of dreams. Here, god. Here, Love. This

is living, this

house, this soul place where your 

heart can lie down

without an ounce of fear; this

is where meaning is made.

Not discovered like gravity-

that was hidden: there all along until

the apple fell--

but instead: created, whole and real

and new in

one step, one sip, one tooth, one root, 

one breath at a time

again and again every day

until the end of time

which is god 

which is unending

which is eternal

which is how long I will love you.