Several days ago we had a final blast of winter, two feet of fresh snow hopefully announcing its end. Anticipating this I acknowledge that I too have been dormant if not frozen; much of my energy directed to my family and the arrival of a new grand-son. Along with the joy of this beautiful being comes much unexpected grief as he struggles with his health. My son has started a blog to keep people updated on the progress of their Baby Shea as support has been tremendous. I have been more inward, and only now my urge to write and create art as an expression of my personal experience is emerging. My son teaches me that sharing not just the joyous events but also the times of suffering helps to unite us. I have a new understanding of how we are so infinitely connected, even and especially through our struggles simply in being human.
My son gave me the sample jar,
its plastic orange lid
labelled sterile, tighten securely
holds his baby’s hair.
Wisps, dark and springy curl inside
snipped away, rescued as an after thought
while you are pricked blood collected
in vials gloved hands still your small body.
The jar sits next to my writing table
commanding attention as I stare
out to the spruce tree heavy
with winters last snow.
I will release this bit of hair
tuck some of it beside scarlet tulips,
cradle first crocuses awakened
after frozen earth lets go of its own hold.
Each strand so unruly and undefined
reach out my baby, push against prescribed edges
let go the shroud that clenches
even now my own heart.