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

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.