The Weanling Poem by Sandy Fulton

Little naked child, my little love,
Running in the grass,
chasing the cat,
playing in the dappled sun.

Child that grew in the furnace of my body,
warmed by love and longing,
fed inwardly till the doctor lifted out
the ten pound miracle of you.

In easy transition, you became
the mystery I cradled in my womb,
the babe I gathered to my breast,
till just eight weeks ago.

Only eight weeks past, my love,
when your tender mouth
still pulled at my stretched nipples,
till we both were full -- you with milk, I with wonder.

It seems like eight years, my love,
but enough to say "that's done, "
your infancy is done.
Now you've become a child.

If love means anything
it's knowing when to say "that's done"
and leaving you to find your way --
as I trust you will,

Little naked child playing in the dappled sun,
Running in the grass,
chasing the cat,
my little love.