I wrote this poem a year ago as we waited for my grandson to be born. Looking back, I realize it is a little hopeful....
A little girl waits
for a fresh, new beginning.
Waves of pain flow over her,
washing her clean.
She longs to separate his body from hers
only to keep him forever close.
She longs to hold him in her arms
and gaze at his fresh, new face.
She readies herself and
lays out his clean, white clothes.
Clothes befitting of a fresh, new person.
“He will match his outfit”, she says.
As he emerges from her body,
he will wipe the slate clean.
He will be her bridge over rivers of hurt,
her antidote to a poisoned heart.
He will quell her anger
and quiet her soul
She will emerge from the waters,
with her youth dripping from her.
No longer a little girl, but a woman.
A fresh, new woman.