The Midwife’s Day: A Poem of Purpose, Life, and Quiet Grace

Abstract

Before the sun has touched the land,

She rises with her practiced hand.

A coffee sip, a tied-back braid,

A call checked twice, no plans delayed.

The pager buzzed at 3 A.M.—

A mother cried: “The pains began.”

She dressed not with alarm, but poise,

For birth begins without a noise.

In shoes that knew the ward's worn floor,

She passed the threshold of the door.

The halls still slept in silent hush—

But life was stirring in a rush.