(Also I’m lying to you. I so did cry. I cry about it often. I know, I know, happy poems. Stop thinking or writing about loss. Well, I’ll return that to you after you’ve lost.
And… I wrote this poem long before I lost them.)
I didn’t Cry
I didn’t cry when I saw the baby dead.
I held no fear; I held no dread.
The wings are whispered, clearly drawn.
So wrapped they are with physical form.
No tears should fall from this sweet face.
Such wings only a baby brings.