The babies have it easy.
They don’t remember anything of the shock
The abrupt ejection into a cold world
That perilous time where some teeter on the line
Hovering between life and death.
Some hinge on a moment where everyone holds their breath.
But the focal point of that situation?
Others do the fighting for them.
Sure, we say “he fought hard, and he’s alive today,”
If it seemed in that moment he wouldn’t stay,
But without the doctors, nurses, equipment, machines,
Clean rooms, beds, incubators spotless,
What chance would most of us have had in the end?
A significantly smaller number on the UN data sheet.
So like us then are our efforts and travails now,
The things we try to build or create,
Stories floating around a head, or an attempt
by fumbling hands to make something we might not hate.
And too often, even myself, do we leave these out in the cold.
No team of experts, no clean birthplace,
Just a cluttered room full of ideas growing old.
Is it any small wonder that I begin so many creations that don’t make it?