Birth comes when much is unexpected,
wishing wood could be warm.
Stories rise to reshape themselves,
each chord struck simply.

Sitting in the sentimental chair,
the memory box giggles,
fog over the first couple of years,
worshipping Milk and Milk Ltd,
as baby sucks and sucks,
frightening herself on occasions,
voice above 100 decibels -
and that's before she winds up -
soprano level, raising hair,
even on bald-as-baby men.
Dogs moan at fire sirens,
convinced Baby is approaching.
Then she leads the orchestra,
food in her mouth/ears/nose,
missiles aimed with accuracy,
unless told the fables of food and clothes.
Baby discovers the larger you are,
the smaller the room is,
leaving one spring, and memories,
of these uncontrolled dreaming moments,
well, let's forget them.

We lift her, returning to the cycle,
picking the soft berries of the heart,
smiling a little madly at her,
and she walks from the black heath.