Photograph by Amy Hart
In thirty-eight weeks, you
will rise above the rubble
of winter, a small blossom
among so much broken.
Until then, I can only pray
this is more than a chemical
mistake and you will stick
and you will stay,
and I will carry you long enough
and keep you warm enough
and safe enough, love you
enough. I’m trying
to not count my stars, but my lungs
only hold so much breath and my love
can’t wait until I know you’ll keep living.
I’ve lived long enough to know
there is no knowing. Years from now,
you will also learn about time,
how it takes and tricks, withholding hope.
Tonight’s sky lends enough light for us both.
Elizabeth Birch: This poem is inspired by my journey to motherhood, from months of trying to months of hoping to now, with my son almost one year old, a lifetime ahead of figuring it out as best as I can. Under so many lucky stars, I live by the ocean in Plymouth, MA with my son, my husband, and our loyal pup, Potato. I’m on Facebook and Instagram at ebirchpoetry.