A
picture, an image, a memory:
A
new born baby
Boy’s
tiny finger
Clutches
Mother’s
Pointer
finger.
His
miniature seers collapse
Quietly
dreaming on lap
Of
Woman’s love
Gazing
on from above
Shallow
inhales of small-lunged-huffs.
She
blinks to better see
Son:
sprouted twig from seed
His
lids open wide
Revealing
brown-hued cries—
Her
own colored eyes.
He
groans and he grows
From
soils low:
She,
an oak tree;
He,
but a seed—
She,
Madonna; He, her grief.
Their
roots deep in dirt spread
Intertwined
together in quilted bed:
He,
her test;
She,
his breast
To
which he lays his head in rest.
He
sucks and weans and drinks;
He
yawns and fades and sleeps
While
she sings
And
sings and sings
A
lullaby to help him dream.
No
more than now—a memory:
A
mother and her brand new baby
He,
A
spitting image of She;
And
She, the Oak He lengthens to be.
