A baby knows the womb,
               its rhythm and sounds,
               as she floats, confined within her mother,
                              every need and want accommodated
                              without the need to ask.
                                             She is content.

Until she runs out of room,
               and dances across the womb
               for joy because she can,
                              her feet are contained,
and elbows restrained.
               A pirouette is out of the question.
              She needs more room in her cozy abode.

Travail approaches and grows to full throttle,
               The rhythms induce compression
               with pizzicato sounds of erupting air,
                              while baby swims against the current
                              preferring womb’s leisure over introduced labor.
                                            Baby calls it “eviction.”
Mom calls it “birth.”
Doctor calls it “delivered.”

A woman knows her life,
               its rhythm and sounds,
               until she battles an uncooperative body,
                              with scans, beeps, charts, and numbers.
                              She turns her face to God and asks,
for healing and purpose.
                             for faith and stout heart.
               and receives His promise,
                The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me.
                                The world calls it death.
                               The woman calls it new life.
                                God calls her to eternity with Him.

Kathleen Evenhouse, December 2024