The night of the morning of his birth
cold rain sogs the fallen leaves
and mud puddles freeze
beneath the street lamps.
My room is filled with flowers:
exotic begonias, red roses,
chrysanthemums and babies breath;
a conservatory of humid plants
reflected in the windowpane.
At three a.m. I walk down the hall
to see our baby, our so-far unnamed
little baby. He is in a nursery, a special
greenhouse filled with babies in
regular rows, each dressed in pale colors
each child turned to the light
in some strange phototropic response.
I watch for hours while he sleeps,
the small survivor of violent transplant.
His hands unfurl / his face is a flower,
our little sleepy nameless flower.