A house wren churrs
Over the field of witch grass, wild
Onion and baby’s breath
In the crisp spring air.
Through the foggy pane,
Never miss a local story.
A child peers at the sky
From his crib. He’s swaddled
In his hand-me-down quilt,
Circulated for centuries.
He scoots upright to his knees,
Grabs hold of the timber around him.
He exhales a puff of balmy breath
And hauls himself from the mattress to his feet.
Observing the blossoms, he coos
And takes his first stride off the old quilt.
Releasing the bars, his hands
Butterfly several times
As he totters.