I would like to interupt this Christmas recap for a little word on my newly turned 12-mo old!!!
Zoe's Grammy sent this pick to around everyone this a.m. What charming teeth she has. She's also thrilling us with her mobility, mastering independant walking last month and becoming quite steady (unless that mass-of-movement Desmond Jones barrels into her). While on holiday, she began pointing and saying DPJ's name. The first name uttered discriminately. She points frequently now: little bit of a finger extending, lips jiggle to mouth some sweet little sound.... ahhh.... sweetness.
So here's the ode, er, poem I've long wanted to post and claim for my own. I didn't write it [but here's one from a month or so ago], Sylvia Plath did, but it is mine. It's been ringing through my head since having mybabes. It has possessed me.
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like ballons.
Sylvia Plath, "Morning Song" 19 February 1961
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