Babies touch the hem of God, each facial relief a permanent etching of light in a dark universe illuminating.
Eons of whispers, gently breathing, exhalations as sweet as lillac in bloom. What form so demure that even to think harshly of them beckons angels for absolution.
Baby, my child, what heavenly architect should on each ocassion create such totality. Eyes behold an antiquity from life time’s unions , where he and she find bones of belonging crafted. An inking of immortality in what is mortal.
JZMH