(for Bob Usher)
The too-soon babies pulsed their hearts into
your palm.
You held them,
conjured the in and out of
butterfly lungs.
Always, you held them,
tiny blue beating chests,
warming them with whispers,
welcoming them to this life,
willing them to stay.
You waited for that last report,
waving it to me from the front porch,
all the numbers there, a triumph –
outcomes counted,
techniques taught.
The babies thrived,
grew into themselves.
The numbers do not reveal
the pain of each loss,
the grace of each survival.
This is a life’s work:
you honoured the fragile strength
of a little fist,
perfection emergent.
