It has held on for a month
despite baths, despite winter hats

donned and doffed:
a tiny shingle of glitter.

My infant grows so little hair
that to see his skull

throb when
blood ebbs from his heart:

It is still so easy.
His follicles iridesce

just there, a bright tile glued
to his pulse.

Well, I am shy of miracles
and shy

of the talk of miracles.
God is not scrutable. Nor are

God’s marvels
a hallowed sideshow

all contrived
to set off dailyness.

On the contrary. Each speck,
each second: It is still

so hard. I am sure
it is radiance first.