Today is my first son’s birthday. I’ve decorated the cake, packed the basketball tournament lunch, gathered the little presents. Ely’s birth set me on a path, and the love I have felt from the moment he was born knows no other. So I’m celebrating by posting a poem I wrote about giving birth. This birth was Waldo’s, my second son.  Birth is life.

Morning Story
for Waldo Myles Capability

we are what gets written –
we are what blooms

you move and I echo

the story written in my body
to tell over again with twists and groans –
the story written in your body to seek out –
memory, the river which threatens and feeds

you move and I echo

my body uncurling from the pain of release –
your body uncurling from the pressure of flight

you move and I echo

we who risk failure
and lunge into our song

you move and I echo
my own primary call

The story of you emerges
wearing its caul
of tea and toast
and breast and boast
in the ecstasy of our achievement.

Each time the shell of me breaks
I am larger and louder –
more full of wind
and song and thanks –

for the day you were born.