Baby Hand

Not bones but muscular air
inside; why starfish spread
five doll small living fingers
with cushion button dimples
for knuckles. All of you
shocks me with wonder,
but in particular this hand,
Bonsai, clutches my heart,
hurts. With unlikely strength
squeezes my eyes without
mercy as it pairs and prays
in the yellow curtain-warmed
dawn; coils my bird perch
pinky like the spring tendrils
of the Morning Glory.
Palm pads pressure – a punch
from a pussy willow – a half
inch lifeline in their fresh creases.
Go on, grow, long as a plane
trail, as shining, but let me stay
more – gripped by miracle.