It starts off as a cry: the newborn's first:
accelerating in a tumble of
the same to something figuring complaint,
the anguish that upon the ear will burst
bespeaking something else, a mother's love
distinguishes, and she alone, the saint-
hood, cradles, grimaces all unreflecting
in that high mirror, the contorting form
of flailing limbs already thrown serene,
hurtling through space, eyes shut, and un-detecting
the softness of its landing there: a storm
in calm, like all storms that have ever been;
which in continuance shows slow decrease
in whose warm folds, and finally is peace.
