Today, Your Baby is the Size of A
I sleep all day in the fog of rain,
glued to the windows, glazing the glass,
collect what is out of place and put it back—
snow boots, fur-lined, and last night’s socks.
Today you’re an orange seed, tomorrow
a pineapple. My clove bud, my spice.
I formed a crust into a crown for you,
made a bright and happy milk.
More than a poppy seed on the breakfast table,
scattered from the center of a crepe-petaled stem,
you are a match struck in the darkness.
Sturdy and taking form, hard and unfurling.
Today a raspberry,
tomorrow a lime.
Barbara Varanka's poems have appeared in The Twin Bill, Booth, Moon City Review, and elsewhere. She works as a business analyst and lives in Kansas City.