I was the 38-year-old tree,
ancient and rigid to some.
A skeptical mid-wife measured my trunk,
grimaced at the added weight
and worry lines that accompany mid-life.
How I wanted to be vibrant again,
slim branches bearing fresh fruit.
My womb, once stubborn and strong
was now a fossil of itself.
I never felt the hardening into resin;
it was only after the doctor
plied you from my womb
that I witnessed your existence.
Tiny and immobile like an insect
once trapped in red amber.