'Size matters', the midwife said,
he weighed two pounds or less,
about the size of a big chunk
of butter freshly churned that day.
'No chance at all'- the local quack-
and packed his leather bag and left,
it was in 1921, a preemie was,
in many ways condemned to die.
The cows were calling to be milked,
and chores were waiting, life demanded,
they left him there with Mrs. Puller
with quiet hopes that death would come
with swiftness, kindness and with silence,
it would be hard to witness it for both,
and mucking out the barn, it could not wait,
when life is tough the tough go on to live
as if those little interruptions were expected
and so it was when Mrs. Puller called them,
'I think he may, with God's good grace,
pull through and live, my hopes have been revived.'
And Byron lived until the morning of Thanksgiving
of 1991, and he had given to this world four kids,
each one was heavy, well above eight pounds
for me, it's pleasant when a kind of justice wins.