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.
