I wrote the following poem to celebrate my new arrival:
A brown truck moves up the lane
and stops in front of my house;
then the driver loads eight large boxes on a dolly
that rolls down the driveway to my front door.
I inspect the boxes: No damage in transit and dry.
So far, so good!
My husband’s pocketknife slices through the exterior packaging
to reveal more packaging inside.
Pawing through the white filler paper, I peek in to see my own book,
straight from the printer’s.
I pick it up, gaze at the front cover, then turn to the back cover.
I flip through the pages, hoping for no missing pages
like checking for ten fingers and ten toes on a newborn.
I turn to page 237 and breathe a sigh of relief:
The correction for “jam-packed” was made.
I ponder the journey:
the decision to conceive
the care and feeding in chasing my dream
gestation way more than nine months
with plenty of intense labor pains.
I pose for a picture
caught up in the euphoria
of now being a published author
and say, “Behold, my book is born!”