White Clouds on Blue Sky

She trims the room with clouds of white on a blue sky.
Painted with care, a sun trimming the light.
Balloons carefully cut with hands that yearn.
She wants a baby.

Each night as her head touches the pillow,
She sees a face, creased, smiling, wrinkled,
a little of him, a little of her, floating on her dreams.
She wants a baby.

Her womb is ready supple, anticipating
the spark of life. She counts the days
with hope, with love.
She wants a baby.

The days go by. She adds a crib.
The weeks go by. She adds the perfect chest.
Months go by. She sees a doctor.
She wants a baby.

The tests are run, violent marks on
glass plates. She waits. She hopes.
For what? A problem? A pill, a shot, an
operation.
She wants a baby.

No problems. Relax. Find something
to do with Your time.
Fill the heart and mind.
She wants a baby.

School, another degree, turn, twirl,
answer the questions, develop theories.
Push away the image forming on the edge
of life, waiting for calm.
She wants a baby.

Visit lands, soar in balloons, talk with friends.
Raft the roughest rivers; conquer the jagged terrain,
attend the requested functions.
Ignore the ache deep in her chest.
She wants a baby.

Search the clouds for moisture. Watch the land for rainbows.
Promises hedging the crystal lake forming in a barren land.
Push away the words standing between him and her.
She wants a baby.

She watches mothers with children.
Sometimes frayed around the edges with
sleep-deprived nights. Smiles riding a tired
pony of light. A mother, a mother, she
may never be, but desperately
she wants a baby.