The new baby grasps for the honey suckle breast

of his mother,

swatting through heavy, blanketing air.

All the baby knows is that he may soon reach

right;

she will be there.

Yet, even as I look on,

I remember nothing of child’s innocence;

I know not of anything that could be there

as I scrunch my fingers into my palm

and branch out my limbs.

Where did the flowers go?

It is no matter;

tongue coated in sweet curiosity, still.