Dear child I won't conceive,
I am sorry for the warmth of your tiny soul,
Which I will not feel.
I love you more than to have you,
For I know the cramped dark corner,
From which you would be forced to grow.
I have tasted the sourness,
From whence you may fall.
I cherish you more.
So, I let you remain a flower,
To grow within my mind,
Safe among the green grasses.
I could not bear to witness,
Your birth as a tender flower,
Then needing to adapt into a bitter weed,
Only to grow up in between,
The concrete called disease.
Yet, even the stalk of the bitter weed,
Might not withstand,
The frozen draft of this peril.
You could wither,
And even leave a seed or two.
Easy I make our choice seem,
Loftily I dodge questions posed,
Casually toss my head and turn.
But dear one,
There is not a sun that rises,
Without an ache for you,
For I know the love you would bring,
To your father's eyes so blue.
He wants you badly, too.
But, wise I need to be,
For I have witnessed this disease,
Turn eyes of tenderness,
Into flints of rage and fear.
I have seen the madness,
Cause one to wish for death,
And grant the wish himself.
I have watched a struggle,
With demons that would be your future.
I have wiped helpless tears,
Cried for lost childhood,
And caressed sadness,
That erodes the landscape of life.
I love you more than to have you.
Converted to HTML by Renette Davis with permission from the author, Jeannine Dutton. Send comments for Renette by clicking here and comments for Jeannine to: 103021.2726@compuserve.com
Last updated: Nov. 30, 2010