Other stories filed under Arts
November 5, 2017
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
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.