"And what is the true nature of the miraculous?" William Pitt Root My son brought you to me today to watch, to mind for a few afternoon hours. He kissed your head, he kissed mine. You are twelve days old and I am less, created, this me, the moment I touched your birth-wet head. I struggle a bit with the diapers, it has been so long - I sing to you with words from memory's blur and heart's tongue. I read you poetry - HD, Emily, one from "A Silvered Flute." I am tall in the love you call from me, do you know you have given birth to a grandmother? This new part of me guides my hand, cradles your head in the hollow of my smile. I tell God my dreams for you, I breathe your milk baby scent my wings fold around you. I recall your father in this very spot, seeing his eyes reflecting my own father's. I wonder if you will like me - that is suddenly important. I do not knit, you know, or wear pearls or aprons. I sing words to the wind, weave letters into summer shawls. My breath stills as you lift your sunflower face, stare soft and wise into mine, your neck a fairy tale stem your sigh a concerto of time.