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Snug
On this stolen golden day
in a late northeastern autumn
your heart beats out a tiny tune
jammin’ in mirror-imaged
syncopated rhythm
to my own big band beat.
I hold you closer than close
in your Snugli.
You still feel
like part of me.
Your smile warms me.
My newly-thickened body
absorbs all the steel cold
of the park bench beneath us
insulating you
from this first frost,
your first frost
the icing on the grass.
Strong corduroy straps
stand in for the cord
that bound us together
until the day
we first met
face to face.
I was too exhausted then
to appreciate your
“amazing grace”
my warm gingerbread baby.
They hosed you down
and cleaned you up
and dried your hair
all matted together
like the feathers
of some seabird
who has just survived
an oil slick -
but only just…..
They swaddled you
so tightly snug
before placing you
next to me.
For an inspection
and a feeding.
Your eyes clasped mine
and you furrowed your brow.
Did I fail your first interview?
Were you already worried
that I might not be
entirely strong enough
to carry your weight
and all the weight
of the generations
you carried inside you,
a tiny time capsule
in concentrated form.
My eyes
locked in shock
as I saw
your father’s face
reincarnated in your
delicate feminine one
making a cameo appearance
on my pillow.
Now, we’re out in the cold where
minutely individualistic ice crystals
meet to knit a blanket
on the ground
for the crows and pigeons
who fight over our breadcrumbs
snowing down.
We face the pond
where the swans
proudly parade in twos
circling with
their mate for life.
~ Composed by Mary Duffy
(For my daughter, Amanda Hartley.)
Previously published in Benches
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