Trials of raising a new born…
The skies are bright, stars illuminating
Amongst them, the moon, a gibbous waning…
In the play pen, the baby is yawning,
Besides it, the mother sighs, yearning,
Tired, disappointed, weary and lacking…
And yet ashamed to be any of them.
Motherhood is joyously euphorically amazing,
A complete and overwhelming utter miracle of new life
Entirely and solely dependent on her.
She is all knowing, all caring, very capable…
But alas! Where is the journal, that which prepares her,
For at best; sleepless, cold and colic induced nights…?
Where does she find, the art and grace to glide
By all the trials ahead, when even the tiniest of
Triumphs, like when baby giggles, send her into
Uncontrolled, panicky half laugh-half sobs…?
As her mind is all but consumed, with thoughts
Of a partner gone awol, barely before it was waning.
Calla 
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