The pitter patter of fingers and toes
internal raindrops
naturally quicken
into a newborn downpour
of random words.
Timid typist,
I am sure you are writing
sonnets
and novellas
on the walls
of my womb,
and I am jealous
of my own
reproductiveness,
and your invisible,
indelible ink.
As it is Mother’s Day weekend, I felt inclined to post a series of poems about motherhood. This one I wrote in my third trimester of pregnancy with my daughter.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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