When I was a child, I enjoyed writing poems. Initially, my poetry was rather pedantic, of the “roses are red” variety. But my mother gushed over my efforts and encouraged my creative writing. Over time, my poems became less stilted and more imaginative. I can’t say that I honed my craft because I didn’t. But my writing slowly improved – it certainly couldn’t have gotten any worse.
I wrote poems for birthdays, Mother’s Day, and other special occasions. Too bad I didn’t keep a copy. It would have been fun to share a piece of my childhood with my children. I stopped writing poetry when I became a busy adult with a myriad of responsibilities. I didn’t intentionally stop writing, it just sort of slipped away, replaced by new activities.
Forty years ago today, my oldest son was born and I became a mother. It was a pivotal moment in my life. The doctor handed me my almost nine-pound squalling baby, and I marveled at the miracle of life (and how he’d fit inside me). And I penned what became my last poem, the reflections of a new mother.
The miracle of birth,
joint creation of God and man.
The genius of the Lord
mere mortal man
but an instrumentality
in the Plan.
The heavenly spirit at last descends
to his temporal parents awaiting below.
His first visitation to this earthly sphere,
his personage yet emanating an angelic glow.
The initial gaze of parent & child,
sweet communion of the soul.
The eyes
a window into the spirit within
a shimmering reflection of love untold.
Oh, newborn babe,
recently traversing through the veil,
What wisdom wouldst thou impart,
what wondrous and beautiful tale?
A sacred entrustment to loving parents,
to nurture and guide your earthly travail.
You now embark on the sea of life,
they blow a gentle breeze of love
and carefully trim your sail.
