Old poem, refurbished.

Maternity
 
My child, for me it is a time
of waiting, embracing, sacrificing.
My body, everchanging—
first a tiny period, a dot, a spot,
but now you grow.
A heartbeat drumming.
 
You live in my roomy womb,
and you listen to your brother and me
chatter and sing to you the way
one talks through a closed door.
 
You, invisible and mute,
but feel my hand on your warm wall.
 
A tiny movement.
Under my thin skin, you are
my blood, my flesh, my bone.
You are what’s happening
inside my miracle mountain.
 
I am sheepish and helpless
as you feel your way through the dark.
I smile, knowing one day
we will say hello.
 
Meanwhile, I don’t know
if tomorrow is winter
or Monday or June.

Pat,  I don't get that last stanza... is it the birthing?  The poem seems to be more about the beginning and sharing with brother, etc.  I get the warmth, mystery and joy the poem shares... nice.  You might delete   period  to help focus and shorten this series.  And delete the word  but  in stanza #3...
If first stanza is about conception and the last one about birthing that is too much of a leap for me.  But then I may have missed something here not having a stretched uterus. 
I like that mountain part and the chatting and singing... nice.  Dewell

Dewell, you're not a woman.  The last stanza?  Oh yes.  It's the one that tears the joint down.  The protagonist is lost in the new world inside her own body.  The exterior world?  It could be anything.

Pat, I still want a bit of paring.

... first a tiny period, a dot, a spot ... Reduce to ... first a dot, a spot ...?

And I either want

You, invisible and mute,
feel my hand on your warm wall.

or

You are invisible and mute,
but feel my hand on your warm wall.

The current configuration hits me a bit off.

Dewell, no criticism meant by judging you unwomanly.  I also find men quite lovely.

I like this poem, Pat.  Of course I wish to give it a trim, but that's just me.

Maternity
 
My child, for me it is a time
of waiting, embracing, sacrificing.
My body, ever-changing:
first a tiny period, a dot, a spot,
but now you grow.

A heartbeat drumming.
A tiny movement.
Under my thin skin
you are what’s happening,
my miracle mountain.

You live in my roomy womb,
and listen to your brother and me
chatter and sing--the way
one talks through a closed door.

What I question keeping needs to go.  I am laughing.  This is so fun.  So when I question it, I need to throw it out.  Yes, I really do. 
Just like cleaning out my book shelf.  I need to give some books away, but I think I might need them.  Nope, they need to go.  Funny.
Thank you, both of you.  I like what you did to the poem, Todd.  Thank you.