It's in every infant I see,
mistakes that I made,
the pills for my back,
your late announcement.
What if the eyes of that child,
so large for a baby face,
relate to a day that I jumped too high?
And if the dangerous call
or shouts that led me to stare for hours,
dictate your penchant for physics
or your writing of flowers and the moon?
What if I drank too soon,
if I filtered disease into your tiny form,
marooned you into pathology?
No. It won't be.
Come dance with Aphrodite
and celebrate that you were
finally given to me.

Sonja Broderick

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-worry/