You were sewed into me, like initials Mother fastened to my childhood sweater; even beneath a pile of scarves and mittens, the garment remained my own.
You were sealed within—a poking package wrapped in skin, a growing tremor,
a terrifying wonder—and I was your living envelope, your place of origin.
You adorned me, stretched me, and I was never happier. But I made a lonely decision: you would be given; my arms would scarcely hold you. Before then,
we walked among blooming apples: green leaves fringed in pink,
discreet and prudent bees. We were never questioned by the trees.
I spied a wedding at the pavilion: bridesmaids and groomsmen smiled
and smoked cigarettes by the colonnade. They were pictures to be taken.
I pined to reach and pinch them—to stretch their skin and beat them,
to syncopate their laughter with my wisdom—but we kept our cadence
and our rhythm, like the rain that fell as your due date came and went.
Then you appeared—and the rising river crested—my hidden-to-me girl.
Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left me wrestling your trace.
Your vestige burned where you leapt down to my boughs.
When fall arrived, the park blustered. The oaks hardened and released
their bright leaves. I bit my lips and salt dried on my cheeks.
I prayed for autumn to depart without pity. I prayed to be like fired pottery.
I prayed…and an unforeseen reply rolled toward me. From the sidewalk
an infant cry scraped me. I shuddered at the sudden flash and strike,
but stayed and waited until a distant rumbled comfort finally came.
Somehow, I asked the baby’s name. A tiny hand raised. The Mother
hushed her parcel. And I stretched myself over the stroller—like a canopy.
Most of these are original poems. I hope you enjoy them and will visit again. Please take a moment to leave a comment...and thanks for stopping by. 
You (And I) Said...