We have such visions
when our clear as fresh glass newborns are handed to us
as if we are trustworthy curators.
We see in an instant
the smiles, the grasps, the first steps, the first days
of swimming lessons, soccer, school.
We can hear beyond their foreign murmurs
to the Mamas and Dadas, the earnest lisp in spaghetti, the forceful Please! with its embarrassing involuntary W,
to the pleas for more, again, just another minute.
We feel their animal warmth burrowing into ours
and have a fleeting, mean premonition of rigid teen shoulders
resisting our touch.
We pull them closer
Adjust the blankets
Allow our limbs to numb under the weight of their bodies
Stay silent to listen as breaths come and go
Rest a hand to feel the reaching & receding of their tiny mighty chests
They are oceans in our arms.
Everything then nothing, everything then nothing,
pushing further away each minute.
We pick up the pieces of their world left behind:
smooth rocks and chipped shells and weathered bits of glass,
our little remnants of treasure.