image borrowed from bing
For Anna Catherine on Thanksgiving
The first girl in generations,
you game when the century clicked
from nines to zeroes to plus one.
Capped on a pallet, you flexed
your toes and let us count
your fingernails.
We studied you
as our particular event,
our small surprise, our bonus.
Months earlier, I prayed
that you'd be born intact
and healthy, and you were.
Today I wish you beauty, grace,
intelligence—the commonplace
grandfatherly clichés....
What
makes us crave for those
we love such bounties of perfection?
Life, just life, is never
miracle enough no matter
how we try to church ourselves....
Squirming in my arms, you save me
from my tyranny of dreams
with nothing but your version of a kiss
and the sure, blind love of innocence.
Samuel Hazo
Posted over on the Writer's Almanac
"For Anna Catherine on Thanksgiving" by Samuel Hazo, from The Song of the Horse.
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