by Louis Faber

‎

She is not fragile,
that is the wrong word

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When you first pick her up
she is so much smaller
than you had imagined,
fitting comfortably into the crook
of an elbow, your hand
under her knees.
She raises a thin arm
and stares into and
then through you
with navy blue eyes
that you carry away
in your dreams.
She is not fragile,
that is the wrong word
for her size belies
a strength she shares
with you, a sense of living
that you had forgotten
or misplaced, and you marvel
at its return, how the baby
arrives with the perfect gift
though you asked nothing of her.
In her eyes, you see
only this moment
and your histories fall away
futures become unimportant
and in this moment, and
the next and the next
you are enlightened.

‎

© Louis Faber

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Louis Faber (he/him) is a poet living in Florida. His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), and Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. 

Find out more on anoldwriter.com.

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