"Heather," for months just a word, barely a concept, a shimmering mirage hovering over a controlled cellular explosion in Cristy's belly, now a word, Proper Noun, floating in the air next to a tiny mystery, this total stranger, the name and the infant, sign and significant, to inexorably converge to become Heather, full moon baby, eight pounds six ounces twenty-one inches, lifted from the violent beauty of birth, red rose, flesh as soft as the first snow ever fallen.
Newspoetry by William at Spineless Books