Wednesday, April 29, 2015
April 29rh Poem - Transitioning
For Lucas who would not cry.
“The doctors call it transitioning,” your mother tells me.
“Some infants don’t cry when they come from the womb
to the room and he wouldn’t so he had to be put on oxygen.”
She kisses your forehead and pats your side.
Born early, six pounds now, and four weeks old,
your small form and calm eyes charm all in the budget
hair cuttery. People always say “Precious” when they
see an infant but damn, you really are adorable.
If one believes in paradise, it’s easy to imagine
angelic reluctance to your transition to a dark stroller
and fleece blue blanket crazy with windmills.
You, Lucas, in your striped pj’s and bib with polka dots,
you, Lucas, happy and gurgling, make my eyes glisten.
from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro