April is national poetry month. Yay! If you follow this blog, you know I like writing poetry. Unfortunately, a lot of my writing is a bit heavy or dark, seeing as how I use it as an emotional release. I’m back to feeling a bit more upbeat, so I found one for today that I wrote about my oldest, when she was still small. She’s an adult now, and I recognize how true these sentiments are. Watching children grow up is both an amazing and bittersweet joy, knowing that one day they will leave. Still, it’s something I’m thankful for every day.
And so it began, not with a bang
but a sigh and a groan from the
heaviness of love. Unprepared and
frightened we were by our creation
for intermittent cries in the night hung
sluggish in the morning
while dull eyes filled with the rays on
the bed. For months, day and night
had no pattern except for the constant
growth of love. Until, finally,
comfort overtook confusion.
Maturity blossomed with the first
fever and swelled with excited cries.
Yes, she’s ours,
Yes, she’s mine.
Dazed with pride we no longer felt
the heaviness–numb to the first fear
of ownership we watched our creation
grow, belying the years with her speed,
a shiny foil to our stagnant selves.
Nostalgia infused the hours of being a
spectator to a miracle with dim reminders
that one day we will not be enough;
our love will snap like a taut rubber
band and leave us dangling apart.