Baby Kesslers

We Can Only Imagine

I was born at the end
of winter's breath,
spring a
sweet taste on my tongue,
something to anticipate,
the blinding hospital lights
a beacon,
a full moon,
linoleum slick like sea glass,
the silver of stirrups,
a cold ocean foam,
her breath heavy and controlled.

Up Angeles Crest,
coyotes howled for tomorrow
and south,
towards shore,
a single jellyfish rose softly,
her transparent limbs
nothing but hope,
a phosphorescent glow
spinning gracefully
towards home.