The Baby,
Is soft, as a cloud,
Silent as the mist,
In which, he once reside,
Alert,
With pangs of hunger,
Excitingly, wiggling at the touch,
Of human hands,
Knowing, the pangs will fade,
Sparkles,
Within his eyes,
Produced,
By the warmth, loving feeling,
From the hands,
Gently holding him,
Innocent is he, who depends,
On his surroundings,
Love and affection,
Is all he desires,
Coming from all directions,
Found, he was,
Swaddled in a clean,
New blanket,
Left, were he would be found,
Without a doubt,
By a young mother,
Confused,
Crying in the night.

By: William Bonilla......12/22/02