Newborn

A distant spark, the morning star casts light
on the rim of coarse horizon's blade.
A crimson jet streaks swiftly over night
to slice an arc in this new morning made.
I stretch an infant hand to touch clouds laid
like peachy cotton out in summer's sky.
The wonder in a newborn eye may fade,
the softness of my baby skin may die
but never let my grasping mind stop asking why.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.