A book is growing in me like a child.
It bumps against my insides
from time to time

I hum to it
when I think to,
I settle into the gait
of its weight

I sense the course of its development,
chapters like ears of corn,
words like the kernels

Things remain mysterious,
like how it will all come together —
it isn’t mine to pry the answers out

A book is growing in me
like a poem. It will come out
when it’s ready.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 22, 2019