The winding completed and given up through
inhalations of new-born that these euphoric days
seem to grace each corner of our house infused
by your love through its umbilical broadcasts,

I rewind and rewind as I kiss and kiss again your
tiny floppy frame now resting on a dedicated
mould on a shoulder built for taking tackles
and breathe you into my future as I hear you

ask for your bath; and I answer in a whisper, yes.
My boy and I we dance through the instinctual
before we swim with you in sudsy bubbled
dreams and douse you with our love. O to run

the softest cotton over your un-boned knuckles,
through the neck tracks collecting angel remnants
that invitingly give themselves up, yielding to the
pleasure of a moment that is mine and yours,

to lift you from your soaking manger and swaddle you
in my arms and after drying to hold you naked to my
skin and fill the dotted lines. To spray your grotto
with blankets of white clouds before I dress you.

And bonding in the aftermath my adult returns to
whisper in an ear that seems to hear without listening
a host of promises and confessions, my votive
deposit decorating the foot of your basket.