Deep Thoughts

I need to go to bed.

My Son, My Executioner
My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just a stir,
And whom my body warms.

Sweet death, small son, our instrument
Of immortality,
Your cries and hungers document
Our bodily decay.

We twenty-five and twenty-two,
Who seemed to live forever,
Observe enduring life in you
And start to die together.
-- Donald Hall

I love that poem.
Our immortality is only one of the truths we face with impending parenthood.