The Birth Poem by nathan martin

wrinkled hands grasp, twist and sigh.

so many others waiting outside feeling
that they were born to early.

sunday school lessons in the mother cause
all the angels to touch down and thumb there way.

out from the womb of constraint
comes a chubby face.

born to late for the canvas and the oil.

not much left to call holy now except for maybe a
pair of blue eyes.

she smiles and cries a little at the sight.