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No larger than a grain of rice,
her face is forming; mouth, a slice.
Her heart, a tube, begins to beat;
at one month, things are imprecise. 

An inch now from her head to feet.
Eyes, fingers, toes: not yet complete.
Her neural tube, well on its way.
At two months, things look pretty sweet.

Four inches long, an ounce to weigh;
miscarriage risk drops every day.
All parts are present, there to see;
at three months, fingers grasp and splay.

Her nails and hair seen easily;
eyelid, eyebrow, eyelash agree.
Four months now and six inches long,
the ultrasound clear: she’s a she.

Her muscles build; she’s getting strong.
You thought you felt her; you’re not wrong.
She’s covered with lanugo hair.
At late month five, she hears your song.

Her fingerprints? Whorls present there.
The eyelids part; eyes open, stare.
When she hiccups, you may observe.
Month six births: viable with care.

Refinements to sensory nerves,
reacts to light, from pain will swerve.
She rarely is reserved or still;
month seven, and this gal’s got verve!

At five pounds now, she kicks at will.
Lungs immature, but they can fill.
Eight months, all sharpens, gets refined; 
You’re on alert, you know the drill.

It’s nine months now; she’s quite confined.
Delivered, breathes in, and unwinds.
Flesh of your flesh, though quite her own;
Distinctly her, you’re intertwined.

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