My new born is calling.
Her cries are muses,
for hours cradling her,
indulging in every idea
every metaphor that is her.

Until my emotions,
are too great to
remain feeling,
thus my eyes become
birth canals.

All the life changing warnings
didn't do this justice,
my conversion through
inspirational lettered tears,
caress down my smooth cheeks and flow off my chin.

I recall,
when they slipped my eyes,
still hearing yesterdays tear drops,
splash,
on to the white canvas that are my feet.

Making their mark,
lending a sweet sound,
as a bid for consonance today,
one tenacious tear terribly teeters
to lead a shift into an uncharted pathway.

Before others follow,
the endless gentle zig zags
through my stubbled field,
lacing themselves with novel experience,
which my new born propels me to organize, into a childhood scroll.

That grows,
with each protruding wet black hair.
She bestows me the ability to remain
wide-eyed,
after familiar facial grey pastures,

Fertilize alphabet sea water,
until ankle deep written pages rise
to overflow Olympic pools as large works
of my new born love... poetry,
All-there is poetry.

copyright All Rights ReservedMCN#
76477-OEM-0011903-00102Luis G. Pizarro II