Life

There is a little hand that's moving,
In the darkness of its hiding place,
Its tiny fingers stretching,
Reaching for what it cannot see,

And this little life that's wakening,
Being made in secret,
Formed before the dawn of time,
And shaped to be just right,
Is waiting for her day to come,
To meet the world she cannot touch,

Her little toes are curled beneath her,
Eyes gray like stormy skies,
And creamy skin without blemish or flaw,
Untouched,
Perfect,
Her rosy lips and precious mouth,
Delicate and fragile,
A tiny tummy rising with breath,
And a head graced with wispy hairs,
Though no one sees her, she is darling,
Beautiful,

She doesn't have a name,
Because mama isn't waiting for her,
And daddy's gone now,
She tired of carrying her,
Weary of the burden,
She doesn't want to see her baby,
Her own,
Her flesh and blood,
She cannot bear to wait that long,
So she will not try,

And suddenly...

That life, that precious life,
Is no longer a long awaited gift,
No longer a creation waiting to be seen,
No longer a great expectancy,
She becomes an accident,
A choice,
And then she's gone,

The lovely mouth,
The silky hair,
The tiny hands curled into fists,
The pools of gray that were her eyes,
The perfect skin,
Gone.

Because her mama didn't want her,
Didn't love her,
Oh, if only she had seen her...
Held her in her arms...
Kissed her salty tears...
Touched her face...

Maybe then,
The world would have seen her too.