Muttered sighs at my collar bone. Milk leaking onto everything. A baby, a bird. A son.
I drift through days, willing my body to heal, taking things slow. Coffee and reading. Old movies and knitting. Nursing and nursing and nursing, growing chubby baby cheeks and baby thighs and baby brain. Adrift. No goals, no expectations. April sliding away. Am I doing the Right Things? (‘You do not have to be good…’) The toddler and the husband off on their own again.
Green things sprout and begin to bloom. April showers.
Words inked onto blank pages.
mothering in the raw 
Sigh. I hold you dear.
Love to you, lady. I think of you more often than I can say.