I fear I haven’t learned the art of mothering yet,
have gathered no great pearls of wisdom to spill out
as gifts for your arrival. I’ve penned no lofty charge
to give you that could carry you bright-eyed and blameless
through the world that knocks, even now, impatient
on the walls of your hermitage. But I can tell you this:
beware the urge to answer its call in haste, my love.
Steep yet a while, safe beneath my heart – the world
will wait for you to knit cell to cell, build bone and tooth
and all the sticky filaments and sinews that bloom beneath
skin still translucent as the finest linen weave.
When it’s time to seek the air, you’ll know.
And The Sunday Whirl (prompt words: art, bone, pearls, filaments, sticky, call, skin, air, linen, charge, beware, cell, knocks)