Mother and child

I had dinner with S. & C. last night and made this picture of C. down on the floor with the baby.

It reminds me of a poem I wrote about this baby's father and me, in April 1975.  I've trashed most of my old writing, but I couldn't let go of this one, verging on Wordsworth's "the child is father of the man" idea. He (as a baby) and his baby girl have very different energies, though. He was quiet, still, thoughtful. She is in constant movement, eager to be and see and do more than she can, pushing herself as if she's in a great hurry to get to the next step in her journey.


Do Not Disturb

In the curve of his nose, perfect round
bead of sweat, across his soft round
across his round smooth cheek,
my finger caressing, I lean close
to inhale his sweet, to touch the curve,
the round petal of his sleeping cheek.

Five perfect fingers curl under
my large hard hand. My thigh
is longer than he is, the swell of it
higher, the heap of me beside him
a mountain, a landscape of weathered
haunch and valley. I pay
attention. He knows what I don't.
Do not disturb our infancy.