What is seen with baby eyes?
Perhaps it’s sprouting sights unknown,
Dressed in mops and donned with suits.
Then forgotten fragrance upon which spilled
Gets bumped whenever starry sky’s are held,
Fraught until the end we sort; gathered,
As if tortured tinder doused in rain,
Shivering by night, but held so close
(Those baby hands held so close).
My wings, warm capes, wrap relished little limbs, and
Singers out-sing birds in forests without wind.
Here at last Love’s stringent command is taught,
Imparted once, maybe drunk, who’ve lapped
At the hips of secrets’ closing gate,
But held deeply yet, ever so deep
in the anchor of your wistful glance.

Turri|Design©

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Painting by Jenni Rope