FROM INSIDE

In your womb, I hear your tune

as I bloom, ready for June.

His voice I know, there as I grow;

together we flow, to match your glow.

Often you bless, a boy you guess;

but nonetheless, not a matter to press.

You’ve been so sick, the food won’t stick.

It’s not what I’d pick; you didn’t learn quick.

You don’t want to wait, in a labor of eight

but I’ll be quite late, and my name won’t be Nate.