I asked my wife whether the she would
like to go to the infertility clinic
And then Amante – after all we haven’t
Gone for that kind of shopping for nearly a year.
And isn’t it strange that an infertile couple
Makes little arrangements to put a key in
And open a little doorway, on a day
That marks a little number on a calendar face.
And love, perhaps that’s all we’ve got now,
That cappuccino that became a cup of tea.
And still there is enough desire to plough the field
Even with only a little seed to sow.
And still have you seen the plough
Break open the soil with little effort.
Upturning what lies beneath, the worms
The humus and minuscule bacteria
That are all cheering you on.
Still, look at those little birds, like fate
Feeding on the seed, leaving nothing behind
For the miracle of annunciation.
