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Sunday, September 4, 2016

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.
 

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