A baby is not broken

nor is her warm head less than velvet.

 

Four upturned feet receive the clouds,

choosing the softest cumulus

to envisage as vanilla candy-floss for the taking,

deserved desserts.

 

A baby does not time her wails

to suit her caregiver,

gauging a grin as a green light

to feel.

 

She knows herself

like a temple knows its gods,

invisibly and well,

before a classic facade.

 

Her chipped toy-box takes up room,

where room is a matchbox,

 

but on she plays,

all lampshades ablaze,

striving to squish her big sausage toe

into a teeny Barbie shoe.

 

A baby’s hand

cannot understand

the things it loves to feel.

 

At what point does she let

the clouds pass by her brow?

 

When does the shoe get too small?