Little, Delicate Flower

It is a thing of delicate beauty,
This small violet flower
That sways on the slightest of breeze.

It endures the frost,
Revels in the sun,
Struggles in the wind
Yet remains beautiful.

I wish to hold it,
But fear stills my hand.

What if I crush it?
What if I scatter it's petals?

This thing of delicate beauty,
It can be destroyed by my slightest of actions.

I hesitate,
Uncertainty holding my heart.

I want to hold it,
To cradle it.

I reach down,
Scooping it from the earth,
I raise the flower,
To have it turn into a child in my arms.

Blissfully asleep,
The newborn yawns,
Stretches.

Uncertainty abandons me,
Fear flees with it.

I hold this delicate life,
This child of beauty,
Who endured much to be here.

Welcome,
My child.