maple

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Sunlight spills from window sills
ensnaring each particle of saw dust
as it floats downward and settles-
resting
on the floor.

Each morning I find you entangles
in
our sheets. I lift from the pillow
placing my lips on your rose
stained cheeks and my hand
upon your stomach
and linger there, acknowledging
her
presense, her tossing, her turning.

I, the silent architect of flesh and sinew,with my splintered,
bloodied
palms
will admire every angle,
every dimension,
every crafted intricacy
of the rounded shoulder,
the arched ribcage,
the smoother grain.

She nestles underneath your breast as you sway in that maple rocking
chair.
Elsa Marie,
seven pounds, eight ounces.





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