A crib, a growing plant, a madonna’s rocking chair,
Moving images of shooting stars and moons:
What must be prepared for her arrival?
What should properly adorn the world she finds?
While she’s kicking in her evolution
In training to abandon the lake-like womb -
Summoned to be the embodiment of dreams –
The demand persists: how must we prepare?
Nothing of her future can be previsaged,
Nor her choices, nor her freedoms of choice:
The numbers swell in lines that bind the continents -
Some insisting on justice, some applying for bread.
A brightly multi-coloured mobile
A trunk of infant clothes, gifted and store-found
Await as first inheritance, closeted
In a slightly sunlit, meditative room.
Families of ducks gather outside the window.
So large our hopes of her, and
She so young and small -
Our questions burn the tongues of a hundred million more.
The anticipation of a parent. Well done, Frank. I've been in that wondering, hopeful state, so I could certainly relate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
All the hope and dreams and wishing we have for our children You sum those feelings up so beautifully in this poem...one of my favourites-Pia