I just found this poem, Interstate Highway and can’t stop reading and re-reading it.
These lines especially:
we not yet thinking a child
though impossibly guessing her features
the feathery, minutely combed lashes
the tiny perfect nails, though not yet
the many later trees at Christmas.
And then these:
I recall the ways that time once gave us—
distracted by signs for meals and clothing,
travelers, heavy with ourselves
defining the gift that bodies carry,
lighting the one, inner room, womb for
our daughter. Seeing from above, I read
this love our child embodies.
Go read the whole poem here.
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