One year ago, on April 2, my wife passed our third child due to a miscarriage. This chiastic poem was completed a few weeks afterwards.

In the home of my beautiful child
A life, eternal, formed anew,
The craft of hands no man could boast,
The weaving of immortal fingers,
Formed to feel the wind and water,
Made to make, to awake the dawn,
Made to praise with endless breath
The One whose Providence had penned it.
And yet, it fell, carried to death,
A seed unmade in a silent sleep
Before its form could bloom in youth,
Never to hold its father's finger,
Never to sleep in its mother's hand,
But quietly buried with mourning anew
In the tomb of my beautiful child.
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