Tis joy which thou hath wrought from clay this day
Creating with own hands, so fair of heart
Whose scent assaults the senses (as bouquet)
In image framed, twud deem true work of art
With eyes dilating at each vision spied
Neath furrowed brow, whilst focusing on form
A breaking smile tho sometimes misapplied
In one so young; indeed in all new born
By grasping air doth reach out to engage
To clasp upon my finger (oh what bliss)
Such reassurance wouldst all cares assuage
As lineage is sealed by gentle kiss
Couldst count no ‘Blessing’ more upon this earth
Revealing of such ‘Miracle’ at birth
