Morning. House. Plants grow wildly at the baywindow sill. Seraphim and cherubim writhe, ready themselves as my body steadies, blinks. It holds the weight of water behind its floodgates. There is the future beating above my head; its incessant, subtle motion sends a shimmer through my thoughts and bones.
Here, a foot. An elbow. You, little hub of life, you thump against me. Thump, thump. We await your faces.
Wait. I have more to say. Don't shut the door. Don't close the light. Don't forget me. There are snowdrops out on the lawn, delicate, forthright harbingers that speak the language of white. Remember this when the sky is bleak and the trees, leafless.
My nephew, bundled in fleece, perplexed by the world, turns his head toward the light, a resplendent pool where the fern dips its curled toe. I am overcome, gleefully observe his countenance as it regulates itself and morphs into sadness, anger, relief, ecstasy. Where did you come from little boy-face? What do you know of the place where my children unfurl? Hush. We have long forgotten this secret garden of flesh and heat.