In December, your baby born,
crinkled brow and pursed lip.
I cannot be there with you now,
but soon enough I'll make the trip.
And when I hold her in my arms
a piece of you, in flesh,
my love will flow through out-stretched arm,
your baby cradled at my breast.
Can love spill over onto her?
When I see her, I see you.
Can beauty be thus transfered?
Her beauty is yours; in, with, through.
Though I've not met her
I know her laugh, her hand, her skin,
for they are yours, and I know she'll also hold
your gentle, loving heart within.
1 comments:
lovely
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