Each of you began first as a flutter,
a blurry grain of rice, a beating heart,
taking up at most a half inch onscreen.
Now, how many more screens we look at.
We don’t consider that once, you were a wet
blur, a pulsing in black and white, compelled
by impulse and wonder. Before remembering
even yourself, you were chasing flavors and
tumbling to the beat of my heart. This truth:
You did not arrive to me by chance, no.
You were hand-picked for who I am now,
and when you were barely a blink,
no bigger than a blade of grass, a petal,
that greenness grew into newness for me.
I never knew before how bendable I could be.
Written beside “The Heartbeat of My Unborn Child” by Heather Lanier
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