I gaze, bemused
at the dark-downed head
nuzzling blindly at my nightgown.

My accidental creation,
shaped of, but not by, me:
random.

I can encompass the babies
of my brain.
The concepts and constructs
of life, love, pain that I form
with ink on paper
are real and explicable.

But this? This scrap of blood and flesh,
its life sparked unknown and
unknowing in unmarked minutes
after curry or chardonnay, or
before my morning shower?

This is a mystery, and I am
lost in it.
I hold it, fearfully,
And wait for joy.

Moth"er*hood (?), n.

The state of being a mother; the character or office of a mother.

 

© Webster 1913.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.