I
gaze, bemused
at the dark-downed head
nuzzling blindly at my nightgown.
My
accidental creation,
shaped of, but not by, me:
random.
I can
encompass the babies
of my brain.
The
concepts and
constructs
of life, love, pain that I
form
with
ink on paper
are real and
explicable.
But this? This
scrap of blood and flesh,
its life sparked
unknown and
unknowing in unmarked minutes
after
curry or
chardonnay, or
before my morning shower?
This is a
mystery, and I am
lost in it.
I hold it,
fearfully,
And wait for
joy.