Before they were real things
they were only imaginings,
a slight perception of direction
toward possible conception.
From these indistinct notions
arose purposeful motions:
collection, insemination,
fertilization, implantation.
Then belly grown large,
nipples engorged,
the interminable wait for
the first sign of labor.
Time without measure,
that night lasted forever,
with the clutches of fear,
and each heartbeat held dear.
Can’t believe what I'm seeing
as each tumbles into being,
no pomp or fanfare,
just tiny first gasps of air.
Now cuddly and dry, each one color-coded,
lined up on the teats with singular motive:
Either sucking up life or making a fuss,
eight little precious milk-sucking maggots.
Dewclaws removed, Yellow cries unless cuddled.
I doze, jerk awake - Pink's not in the huddle!
The warmth of the siblings and mom's cleansing tongue
define the world of sensation of the so very young.
A smell and a texture the nightly amusement,
with tickles and cold things and upside down movements.
A crack, peeking through the cloudy orb of an eye...
Hello little one! What's this that you spy?
Things that are bright, things that go boom,
things that are cuddly or roll across the room.
Things that vibrate, things that wobble,
mountains of noodles when you first start to toddle.
They sleep over here and go poop over there,
though sometimes they don't and just go anywhere.
Washing and sweeping and changing the blankies,
And tunnels and climbing and rocking and tuggies.
[To Be Continued...]
though sometimes they don't and just go anywhere.
Washing and sweeping and changing the blankies,
And tunnels and climbing and rocking and tuggies.
[To Be Continued...]
