Friday, December 12, 2008

Dec. 12, 2008 poem


Dreaming, I saw the bassinet and
heard the loud cries. A baby, a ghost,
softly swaddled in white cotton and
so real I sat up and
reached for him or
her to give comfort in the night.

My arms fell. I was alone, and
in the great absence,
Empty conceived Grief.

But in bed, holding the infant in my arm, I knew
Love in condensed form
so beautiful it couldn’t be real but
was. Or would be in a millennium
unless Grief came to term.

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