The Cradle

She lies in a cloud of gauze edged with pink,

The color echoing in her blossoming cheeks.

Her eyes, though closed, are fluttering to the movement of dreams,

And there is a ghost of a smile

Tugging at the corner of her lips.

I feel a peculiar surge of both awe and frustration

As I sit gazing down at her —

Awe: because I cannot believe I created

This perfect tiny being;

Frustration: because I cannot partake in the pleasant dreams

That so sweeten her sleep.

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