A winter baby
Pauline Murphy
Atom by atom,
cell by cell, slowly, slowly,
you built yourself.
In October, I brought you home
to a place beside the ocean;
that’s all I know.
I knew you
As little as I do
the science of weather.
Rain and high winds
moved in
from the Atlantic.
They battered our windows
day and night, and days
were more night than day anyway.
I cradled you near,
felt the heat of your head
on my chest,
soothed protest
as best I could,
sang of dappled horses,
while the ocean rode in
with the winds
from where storms begin.
All knew
was how you
and I had to make it past winter
and into spring.
I longed for news
of daffodils.
Slowly, slowly,
we pushed through the dark,
and emerged whole and bright.
Somehow.
That’s how it is, Elizabeth.
That’s how it always is.