A Dream of Spring

I've had hopes dashed, but none so profound as loss of what was mine.

I wrote this poem many years ago for a friend who suffered a miscarriage.  I post it today for a friend enduring the letting go of great anticipation, a woman who is already a mother in so many ways. 

miscarriage

Once,
when you weren't looking,
my fingers slipped into your pocket,
finding it warm--
the womb of a baked potato,
heating the hands of a child's
snowy trudge to school.

They could linger there,
my fingers--
nestled amongst your syllables waiting to be worn
the next time,
nourished by the umbilicus of your kindness,
welcomed by the proximity of your beseeching eyes.