Time Passes

Time Passes without permission. I last wrote in here on November 19th 2012, which is shameful. And it was also a lifetime ago. I gave birth to my third (and probably my last) child, a boy, named Judah Michael, on December 4th. Since then it’s been a whirlwind of epic proportions.

You may (or you may not) know what the early weeks of parenthood are like… and if you do, you should fill me in because it’s all been a blur to me. Now Judah is rounding out on month two of life, and I feel like for the first time since before Thanksgiving, my head is back above water.

On Tuesday I did something I haven’t done in over a year. I set aside a few minutes to scratch out a rough draft of a poem. So I’ll leave it here as a draft, with the intent of coming back and polishing it up. Kind of like leaving an article of clothing at That Persons Place so you have a reason to return.


I carry your sleeping body with utmost care,
the kind of gentle afforded only to precious cargo.
In the darkest hours of a silent night
I am the watch tower, you are the siren.

Lay you down with relief and regret,
half running to the door, yet also lingering long.
Every day turned over is one lit to the flame.

Hours or minutes have passed,
Your bleating lamb wail bursts open,
I can feel light flood and surge,
the sleep-steps bring me at once to you.

Noises similar to the rocking of a wave,
an ocean full of arms and beating hearts.
You settle heavy and sweet.

The house sleeps, but not the watch tower.



3 thoughts on “Time Passes

  1. Oh, sweetheart. It really was a lifetime since you last wrote–Judah’s lifetime. (Do you know, for most of last year, I wrote less than I ever have since I started writing online, and then it was only after I sold the house and could see the future again that I truly felt like writing. Never worry about this–forcing it only results in crap writing.)

    The poem is beautiful. And this–“Every day turned over is one lit to the flame”–made my throat hurt with truth.

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