|i'm trying to smile but his hair is ruining the picture|
Oh, sweet soft rounded crown,
Out of God's deep oblivion
You were pulled into this world
Silk, black down, the feel of those newborn hairs
Still rest in memory on my fingertips.
The promise of future golden curly locks
Lay hidden, I just knew,
In their dampness.
Eyes of a watercolor mixing cup:
Blue and grey and green.
Full soft cheeks that held in air
Your simpered infant lips.
But when, oh when?
This mama waited in silence
For that which would be your glory:
That naked pate,would burst,quite surely,
Into a bloom of flowing curls.
Most truly, right?
Month by month, oh, has a year passed by my love?
And then some more?
What lies there,
So stingily straight, such tawny muck,
Where your yellow ringlets should be,
Is that, my son, your hair?
I denied it, and waited,
I encouraged it with hope-filled caresses,
And then I mourned what was never meant to be