Grey clouds drift like rousing thoughts,
between winter's long exhale
and spring's first breath,
as frost melts in patches,
revealing a grass blanket beneath.

Robins flash their defiant redbreasts
against the monochrome mornings,
singing and brightening each day
with their jovial song;
While bare trees stretch
their waking branches
out towards the pewter skies.

The short month lingers
like a lover's daydream,
as each day becomes a slow dance between
the chills retreat and the sun's advance,
as the daylight stretches its golden rays
a little further into the evening.

©️Lizzie Bevis

This is not how I thought I’d meet you, my son.
In your plastic bubble, I don’t feel like a mom.

Can’t hold you, or feed you, or rock you to sleep.
These are not the memories I expected to keep.

So quiet and fragile, “It’s my fault,” I weep.
Each night we go home with an empty car seat.

“Can I hold him?” I ask. She says, “You may soon, just not today.”
“Maybe tomorrow will be the day.”

Even though I only get to behold you for now,
It fills my life with bliss just to see you in sight.
Here, I patiently await to give you a kiss.

I cradle my pump until my body is dry,
Filling the freezer with my supply.

“Liquid gold,” they say, to help fix you.
Drink up, my sweet boy, it’s all I can do.

Amongst the fear, the hell, and the anguish,
There is light, a magic, and hope that all will be well.

Late at night, amidst tubes, the beeps, and the wires,
We form a bond that could start fires.

After seven days of life is the day I finally get to hold you—
So little and fragile, my emotions running wild,
I dare not take a breath, just in case it might hurt you.

Nurses whisper and sing you a sweet lullaby,
They hold my hand, “It’ll be okay, mama,” as I cry.

They touch you tenderly, you’re theirs on loan,
Filling you with love until you’re ready to come home.

When we finally leave, it’s bittersweet.
We’ll never forget those we meet.

I’ll never forget those sterile walls, hands washed raw,
I’ll hear the beeps long after leaving those halls.

Joy and nerves as we drive towards home,
We’ll be sure to tell you about your start in life, my sonshine.

One in seven need the help of the NICU—
I just didn’t think it would be you.

waiting for months to pass
and then, i’m blue
and am labeled ungrateful.
waiting for months to turn to dust
in my rusty palms
to set straight my wonky emotions
to soothe my ferocious oceans.
counting days till my cage is opened
reciting rhymes until i come back to life.
waiting for months to disappear
become marks on the calendar
can’t wait for this year to be over.
waiting for these months to stop dragging
my laden feet
upon the creaky floorboards
resisting the torture.
waiting for the months to surrender
to the year’s higher rule
succumb to the power.
waiting for these months to blow by
to relocate out of my eye view
to package up and leave.

i can’t endure these months anymore

You should of known
That I could do more with my breath
   than sing Funeral hymns
I could of told you a joke
Give you chats lasting throughout the night
Comfort you when you needed
      Someone the most
I could of shown all things before you took
     That last burdened breath.
  The grim, wooden human box
Tells me you have taken all your breaths
  I conclude, I’ll sing this Funeral hymn
        Like it’s the last breath I’ll ever take.

It’s funny how sometimes
A month can feel like a day
And a day can drag on
Like a month