That
first touch, fingers
trace a
soft face, newly born,
and now, wholly yours;
and a
head cradled,
whisps
of down, senses tickled,
light, fresh, a life held;
the soft
kiss of lips
pressed
to tiny fingers’ tips
reaching out for touch;
The
grasp, then, of fingers
clutching
yours, a brief touch gone
in letting go, time, too;
and the
rivulet
of
tears, wet and warm, streaming,
time’s touch remem’bring.
No comments:
Post a Comment