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                 "And what is the true nature of the miraculous?"
                                          William Pitt Root

My son brought you to me today
to watch, to mind for a few afternoon hours.
He kissed your head, he kissed mine.
You are twelve days old
and I am less,
created, this me, the moment I touched
your birth-wet head.
I struggle a bit with the diapers,
it has been so long -
I sing to you with words
from memory's blur and heart's tongue.
I read you poetry - HD, Emily,
one from "A Silvered Flute."
I am tall in the love you call from me,
do you know you have given
birth to a grandmother?
This new part of me guides my hand,
cradles your head in the hollow of my smile.

I tell God my dreams for you,
I breathe your milk baby scent
my wings fold around you.
I recall your father in this very spot,
seeing his eyes reflecting
my own father's.

I wonder if you will like me - 
that is suddenly important.
I do not knit, you know,
or wear pearls or aprons.
I sing words to the wind,
weave letters into summer shawls.

My breath stills as you lift
your sunflower face,
stare soft and wise into mine,
your neck a fairy tale stem
your sigh a concerto of time.  

Joyce Wakefield