Sonnet #419

There will come a day when you hold a baby

for the last time: someone's errant crawler and a stair

too close, so pick the baby up and hold it there

and speak softly too it, the soft and lovely baby

will lean into your neck as if it knows you

and maybe the last baby does, maybe not

but it will be the last time you feel the knot

in your stomach of trying to be so gentle, coo

sweet nothings to the lost sheep of this flock

your children past the age, perhaps, grandchildren, too

and no more little ones underfoot, grabbing at socks

in the dark, wanting to be held up to see at the zoo

there will be a last one, a very last one, and your soul

will reach and feel their head and your arms full