For the unborn, whom I loved

Where death can speak I cannot help but hear.
Where woe can sing I cannot help but join.
Though rough and tumble with the pain of grace,
My thoughts are with the always distant day.
And were I more than I could be, I am
Simply too far away to grieve in peace.
But heart hold not what love you've shed until
You rest and see divine allowance in
This masterpiece of greater knowledge and
The hope that in the knitting comes purpose.
Shed the expectation. Shed the heartfelt
Cries for the afternoons that never were.
Give your tongue to praise of the intention,
The intervention, the massive and the
Horrifying contravention: Be still.