For Anna Catherine on Thanksgiving

The first girl in generations,
   you came when the century clicked
   from nines to zeroes to plus one.
Capped on a pallet, you flexed
   your toes and let us count
   your fingernails.
                              We studied you
   as our particular event,
   our small surprise, our bonus.
Months earlier, I prayed
   that you'd be born intact
   and healthy, and you were.
Today I wish you beauty, grace,
   intelligence—the commonplace
   grandfatherly clichés....
                                             What
   makes us crave for those
   we love such bounties of perfection?
Life, just life, is never
   miracle enough no matter
   how we try to church ourselves....
Squirming in my arms, you save me
   from my tyranny of dreams
   with nothing but your version of a kiss
   and the sure, blind love of innocence.

 

Samuel Hazo, The Song of the Horse (Autumn House Press, 2008)