I think, therefore iambic pentameter

Pressing outward from the deep unknown
within; the salt-splash waves in which you swim
in tender-glowing shadows soft and dim.
Carefree, you fill this world up all alone,
a rumbling lullaby my every groan.
You press beyond your round world's tiny rim;
sweet child, how small my womb seems to have grown.

Soon the wind will touch your startled face,
fill your little lungs like small damp sails.
Newly now outside me, I'll encase
you in my arms, and whisper through your wails

that I am far too small to be a world,
and you too large to stay so tightly curled.