B. B. Watkins
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There He Is...
Just look at the baby lying there,
Eyes tight shut in first repose;
A harvest of so much time and care,
Reaped, at last, in birthing throes.
How strange this sense of initial meeting
With someone as yet so very unknown;
Untouched by previous glance or greeting
Yet bearing the seed of inheritance sown.
We hesitantly seek a familiar trait,
Some tenuous link to bind us fast,
Trying to absorb this spawn of our wait,
This mint-fresh being of an ageless past.
No layer of prior perception here;
We truly are seeing him just as he ...