~ For my niece Rebecca, her husband Paul, and baby Perry Brooks

The baby is the miracle;
His eyes are irresistible.
His hatted head is why we live
And build and breathe and sweat and give.

His lips, his cheeks, his fingernails,
Soft weapons o’er our hearts prevail.
And all our armored busyness
Melts upon his helplessness.

He doesn’t even mean to be
The spitty, softy death of me.
Demise of me with me enthralled,
He softly breathes; to him I’m called.

Too small, these words, unnecessary.
The moments speak in pixels clearly:
She tired, unclothed, wrung out and smiling.
He, too, face bent to love beguiling.