Stuck around the mirror of our wardrobe are polaroids I took with Reu in Paris.
It seems like an age ago we lived there,
that my now articulate and boisterous boy
was a babe in my arms.
I gaze and reminisce -
I imagine life in a few months,
when this babe quickening in my womb
is strong enough to hold his head up, oh
The dahlias are in season.
Ruby-red, sun-gold, bloody lovely
I step on a floor laid sixty years ago, marvel at the poetry of stain and crack
We have thirty five chickens living in an upturned closet in our back room.
I can hear them as I type,
chirping noisily, scratching about,
catching sunshine on their week old golden fuzz,
they were not planned -
but acquired on a whim
(because they needed a home)
it's a trial for us - in what will be
an essential part of our business:
producing pastured chicken for eating
I am nearing thirty-eight weeks,
tomorrow Reu and I catch a short flight
to Sydney, for my sister's wedding
my doctor has cleared me to fly
but I am a little hesitant,
(of all the toddler and baggage juggling mostly)
then I remember soon
I'll be with my kin
and hugging them