To a Child of Nine Months

Content to rest here where we are, my young son:

You an infant with soft sounds and soft ways;

Your eyes color of silver, bright as silver spun

Out of a mint into your little self. I like our days

Compact, and intimate, and closely knit.

I am content. This mine, I shall submit

To what you may or may not be.

My happiness demands no gift of prophecy.