One Year

A year ago, I trembled
as the doctor's withdrew you from my body.
Your fingers were miniature matchsticks
Your body no longer than my forearm
Sensors, tubes, IV's and a steamy incubator
replaced my womb.
Your body, fragile as rice paper
was too brittle for my weak arms.

But today is not that day.
Today we praise toothy grins and husky laughter.
Chunky hands smear crumbs
and frosting over face and fluffy curls.
Your round belly wobbles
as you teeth on new treasures.
Your cheeks are pillows for
the thousands of kisses you receive
before you fall asleep in my arms.