The baby is at thirty-three weeks!
Snow making morning of the darkness, that involuntary light.
Can’t you make today a praise of something more than worry,
More than indecision, more than just the sun showing up late
Again at the edges of the fallen snow, gray and purple, then finally
The sky follows blue and pink like an anxious pregnancy?
This poem may be all you will ever have control of, and even
It is a series of decisions you barely recognize as yours
Until you revise them. Look again. The sun pulses from inside
The ice. Look again. The evergreen stoops with the weight
Of the pulsing sun. Look again. Your life is without consequence.
Look again. Your life was once without consequence, and now
There are consequences. Praise them. The rushing aquatic
Beat they played for you out of a little box is beating inside
Your sleeping wife. That sound is not the rhythm wearing
Down a worry stone. Listen: it is the blood of your everlasting
Taking the shape of its vessel. The decisions you have made
And make now will outlast you. You are more alive in
The consequences you impart to your child than you are
Anywhere else. A poem is just practice.