Poems
As I lay in bed with a baby nestled against me, cheek pressed to my chest,
I write poems in my head, that will never be read.
While rocking a baby in the quiet dark of night, who refuses to be lulled into slumber,
I write poems in my head, that will never be read.
In the moments I take to savor the sweet ache in my muscles, from holding a baby for hours on end,
I write poems in my head, that will never be read.
Of love and joy and pain and light. The trials and triumphs of motherhood.
I write poems in my head, that will never be read,
that is,
except,
for this one.
