The Birthing

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I waited with the world

for you to be born.

Each of us waited,

Some counting the minutes

Some aware but working

To do the many things

That keep the wheels of the world

Turning.

And some slept

Knowing you would

Come without their encouragement.

I waited alone

Working at tasks gentle and quiet

Vaguely aware of the minutes

Speeding by

The rain fell

As if the world were crying

And then softly

With just a few fireworks

You were born

And despite such

A small, quiet entrance

You filled me with

A sense of promise

A sort of inner rebirthing.

I have witnessed your birth

Some 65 years.

I have seen you born

Sometimes with tears

Sometimes with a sense of joy.

But always

There is the smallest

Sense of change

And of something

That is already ancient.

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