Dawn (39 Weeks)

At 4:39 a.m., you wake.
I hold you through the rounded melon
of my belly as you roll, shimmer—

moonlight on the edges
of waxy springtime leaves.

And this so, most
mornings—just before
the birds stir, before the sun
blinks her heavy eyes open.

Let any hurried thought
flutter into the early light—
there’s time for that later,
when you’re earth-side.

For now, I want to remember
every inch of this morning stretch,
before you are ever born,
before your coming dawn.