This small new life lies belly-up,
floppy headed, loose limbed.
She sleeps, her tiny digits set
with nails of pearl on furling fists
and untried feet
There’s a wisp of hair, a tiny nose that
recently learned ‘air’. Slack-mouthed,
her lips purse, now and then, fish-like
remembering the source of her
food and comfort
Two weeks ago she’d burst her tadpole
skin too early. Impatient to join us
she swam head first into a world
that wasn’t ready with thimble-sized
socks, miniature vests
Now here she is, all promise
and possibility. Her weary mother
and I both brim over with tenderness,
pride and premature hope.
What shall we call her?