Birth of a Child

It is a great and gracious thing,
the birth of a child. Yet hardly a scratch
on the catchment of space and time,
just one small curling precious mouth
gasping for more than primaeval air.
Eyes full of every tear 
that can be shed, lips concealing
every word that through all we know
of time can truly or falsely be said
and a single finger pointing down all
the convoluting ways of destiny.

These composite eyes wheel, as we,
in search of a million shattered suns
that invest themselves here in this fragile flesh,
conduit of a universal pulse,
which will cool to a contracted vision
of all the prime realities;
this birth and beginning,
this climax and continuance
of that same wheel's turn.
It is a great a gracious thing.
It tunes and attests to all stars significance,
the slow sap of sorrows and of joys.