A child unborn, the coming year
Grows big within us, dangerous,
And yet we hunger as we fear
For its increase, the blunted bud
To free the leaf to have its day,
The unborn to be born. The ones
Who are to come are on their way,
And though we stand in mortal good
Among our dead, we turn in doom
In joy to welcome them, stirred by
That ghost who stirs in seed and tomb,
Who brings the stones to parenthood
Wendell Berry, The Sabbath Poems, 1982, Poem V
HT: AK
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