Good   I sometimes wonder — how would it have been, having kids? My wife, as ripe as a brood mare and as fearsome as a mother hen,   would nestle each wee bairn upon her breast and I would smile — yes, it happened again, she was late and then we knew we’d be blessed   with another one, and this time things could be different . . . or so I’d pray, and then press a tiny hand into my whiskers — good.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2022