The Birth Of The Unborn

It’s a beautiful spring day,
the kind that makes you breath deep
through your nose searching
for new odors which may have
arrived during the night

the Sun opens the pores
on one side of your face as
you squint happy to be alive
with all this fresh air now warm
enough to dry your runny nose.


So often we walk away from what
we should recognize and
appreciate, even if it only lasts long enough
to share a wink
or a heartbeat
or a smile

it passes with poetry and purpose,
a guile determined to be something more than
a fancy passing.

Life doesn’t schedule these things, it
merely lets them occur as children born
into a family too large to afford a place to sleep;
they are welcomed like the next, as joyous as the last,
yet their place in the world is only temporary
and sacred.


You let them flow over you and wash
your hands gently in reverence to their
departure and turn your face around to
open the pores cooled by the shaded northern breeze,
and you hope this is not the last time
you remember them.