I wrote this many years ago and recently rediscovered it. Felt appropriate for Mother's Day.
For a moment the earth stops spinning,
all other thoughts recede,
time slows, heart stills, and only two
remain in this world of our joint making.
I hardly dare touch fragile fingers,
the head an over-ripe peach,
soft fuzz showing my fingers' shape
no matter how carefully I hold.
The rise and fall of concave chest
restarts my own awed breath.
Infant eyes, liquid solemnity,
bring wet patterns to my own cheeks.
I cannot comprehend this familiar stranger,
how something weak and malleable
possesses such strength within itself
to tear from me and live.