Premature

A poem about my daughter

Premature

 

 

 

Five days past The Ides of March

Five years before the new millennium

Alive, she tries to cry in the dark

Survive, her only agenda

 

Doctors say “too early to tell”

I pace the floor in doubt

Her mother, weak as all hell

But then I hear a shout

 

A little blue foot, a little blue hand

Rising from the isolette

Pinky in palm, she understands

A moment I’ll never forget

 

Thirteen years since then

And the blessed days I do count

Never sick has she been

But knows it all, no doubt

 

11/17/08