This poem was written after viewing a television short
about the impact on children of the AIDS epidemic in Africa.
Their weight: a feather of warm air,
Warm air filled with sweet aroma,
Ecstasy to parents’ noses.
Am I ready for what this means?
Is anyone ever ready?
When I arrived so long ago,
Was yet another moved the same?
My cries were always answered,
Tiredness, a proud parent badge;
Happy reprise – to come later
When holding the next go around.
We, the average fortunate
Whose finger is softly grabbed
By newborn infant’s tiny hand
By newborn grandchild’s tiny grasp.
But, when grand- and parents are gone,
And dozens cry “I need some care,”
Who is there to shepherd those that
Are children tending to babies?
~ Norman R Gevirtz
