I heard your heartbeat today.
A fetal metronome
nestled in your mother’s womb.
Strong, fast, like a powerful locomotive
chugging away.
And all the more impressive
as it’s likely the size of
a grape seed.

How does your little heart know how to beat?
How was it set in motion?
Who wound the spring or
flipped the switch or
turned the key in the ignition?

Did it take a moment to warm up?
Or was the beat just there
like the first pounding notes of a John Phillip Sousa march,
striking up to dash the silence
in the blink of an eye.
Or – one might say – in a heartbeat.

Perhaps your precious heart
has been beating all along
somewhere in the Universe
waiting its turn to turn up the volume,
to resume its rhythm,
to pick up where it left off
in some prior lifetime.

Whatever miracle set your heart in motion
and brought it forth at this time and in this place,
I am honored to play a part in the symphony
for which it beats a perfect percussion.

It astounds me sometimes
how quickly life proceeds.
From a grape-sized fetus protected in the womb,
to a soft-skinned infant nestled in your parents’ arms,
it will happen in the blink of an eye,
or – one might say – in a heartbeat.

When you are born
I will not fall in love with you
at first sight.
I already fell in love with you
at first sound.
And it all happened
in a heartbeat.