When you were born, the world was too.
The yews put out chartreuse and tulips
lifted red Bordeaux in satin goblets.
A haze from sugar maples streamed
thru our bedroom-window screen. People
say newborns don't see. Don't believe it.
You always turned your head toward light.
"You must change your life," Rilke wrote.
What did he know? You woke me. Birth
transforms. Procreation flares. In Terror
I became heroic. Before my wounds
healed I fought sleep to keep you alive.
Tuesday Poem is a New Zealand-based blog that welcomes all poets.