Memory

The tiny child growing inside me
drinks my tears of uncertainty,
almost before memory.

He will bloom cheerful at first,
will tumble and race
talking freely with the spirits
that brought him here,
clinging to my pant leg.

As she grows,
she'll begin to feel twinges
of our first connection,
though I'll have long buried it,
choose to revel instead in her twirling skirt
brushing against me, the faintest touch.

But he will cry out my old tears
when both of us least expect it.

She will travel the world
bringing me back crystal suncatchers
that shine like familiar droplets of water,

always trying to win my love.