It’s Alive

Ever so small, 
 a newborn trembles;
 cold, in virgin skin-
 upon waking birth;
 ink not yet dried;
 puckered pink flesh, 
 the wand wavers-
 what to write first?
 Vision blurred-
 lines uncrossed
 chubby legs
 untested, cramped.

Inexperience unedited
 as pages reach out
 hungry, craving 
 mother’s milk 
 from father’s teat. 
 Seedling planted, 
 a story grows, 
 develops wings, 
 flying in pastel skies. 
 Today, breath, 
 tomorrow, lullaby.

© a month ago

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