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.