You are composed of heavenly light and shade,
arms raised like Caravaggio’s Saint Paul
in his Conversion on the Road to Damascus.
Your hands reach into the surgeon’s light.
I am relegated to the shadows
like Saul’s servant, holding the horse’s head,
a role of unenlightened comforter,
as you focus, blind to all else,
fingers raised as if blessing,
beckoning the light of our daughter
into this world.