post-advent not post-partum

Advent is over,
Mary had her baby,
but I'm still pregnant:
full, expectant,
unseasonable.
We do still
wait together for the
Second Advent,
of which no one knows
the hour...
I suppose I'm
not so out-of-season
after all.

already

You don't know how
to smile yet,
but make us smile
every day.

Your lungs have never
filled with air,
and still you take my
breath away.

Your well-knit form,
a hidden gift,
reveals our Maker's
loving way.

As yet unborn,

but you are
no less powerful for it.

epiphany child

The sixth of January,
Epiphany,
great feast of light,
a day for what has
until now been largely
hidden to be
unveiled --

and my due date.

It fits, as my
three little kings
watch eagerly,
waiting for treasures
long in darkness
to be brought forth
in light.

May it be so
with you, my daughter,
my little star.
May you come to be
a lamp uncovered,
a story shared
with those who have
not yet heard,
a glowing manifestation
of Christ's bright glory,
an epiphany.

be not afraid

You let yourself be born,
so you are not afraid of a mess.
Born to a woman,
so you are not afraid of irrationality.
Born into a family,
so you are not afraid of drama.
Born within community,
so you are not afraid of loneliness.
Born in a body,
so you are not afraid of pain.
Born in uncertain times,
so you are not afraid of the future.
Born with an impossible mission,
so you are not afraid of failure.
And I am all of these:
a mess of irrational drama,
alone in an overcrowded body,
failing and afraid--
so you are not afraid of me.

35 weeks

I don't wish it
away this time,
like everyone assumes
we next-month
mothers must:
"Are you just dying?"
they ask with
pinched face and
sympathetic wince.
No.
I am tired, yes.
I am tired, and grouchy,
and uncomfortable.
But I am alive
with life,
full and filled up
in a way I may
never know again.
So I will open myself
to all of it:
as many
shallow-breathed
days and pillow-tower
nights as I am given
to nurture
to hold
to house and grow
this abundant life,
this bursting blessing.

i'll let it go this time

They're not supposed to run upstairs
Fierce in fast joy
Pierce shrieking boy
Free-happy as no grown-up dares

hibernation preparation

The squirrels and I
are stocking up,
a bit rounder each day,
tucking away
by instinct
for the coming change.
We store and gather,
prodded by
a bone-deep knowing:
Winter will come.
Then we who have
scurried will be still,
sink down,
settle fast and firm
into the dark
that brings life.