I know I have felt this panic before.
February has finally ambled its pokey self
right out the door and we sit on the cusp
of March which should mean spring,
but doesn’t. What it is, is:
it’s the last month of pregnancy.
When you know and your body knows
that the next thing should be upon you
but something in the universe conspires
to keep you in the grip of what has been
just a little longer, but you know
that this one could go long.
Just like the last one did, and how will you,
how will you ever bear it? Not one
more month, not another week, even.
Oh please, Timekeeper of the Universe,
if you know what is in me, get this child,
get this everlasting winter, get it out of me,
get it over with. I’m ready for transition.
1. Game night. All generations. Dutch Blitz tournament. Letting our hair down.
2. Mallard couples flirting on the pond
3. Dusting off the tschotschkes
4. Altar-building (which may be a repetition of #3)
5. Rhythm of the in-breath, out-breath, pause.
May we walk in Beauty.