In The Nursery

Anne Stevenson

I lift the seven months baby from his crib a clump of roots. ' Sleep drops off him like soil
in clods that smell sunbaked and rich with urine He opeI).S his eyes, . two light blue corollas.
His cheek against mine
is the first soft day in the garden.
His mouth makes a bud, then a petal, then a leaf.
In less than seven seconds
he's blossoming in a bowl of arms.