We each must make the journey into this world. It is a rite of passage.
© Kent L. Bijou
She looks at me with half closed eyes,
As if to pierce my soul.
The sounds she makes are strong and firm
For one just moments old
With skin still soft from life’s ordeal
She muscles up a whine
Small fingers reach, yet never touch
But sure they will in time
For life’s begun, and all is new
So many things to learn
She's not the first one nor the last
We've each once had our turn.
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