Your father emails me. The photo shows
the usual tiny human, wrapped up tight,
although I recognise your motherís nose
smaller and unpierced. The text is slight,
preoccupied, but feelings launch like birds:
He is a gorgeous little mite, and Iím
already daft about him. Helenís fine;
amazing. So much in so few words.
It is traditional to play the seer
and speculate on what youíll grow to be
as if the future can be settled here.
Sweetheart, I wonít presume; weíll wait and see,
but I can tell what you already have:
a life where every thought for you is love.
If you have any comments on this poem, Suzanna Fitzpatrick would
be pleased to hear from you.