Year One

Youngest grand babe,

always had a wrinkly hand,

to hold at holiday time.

Parents started traditions,

trying on mom and dad;

outfits didn’t fit them quite right,

Dad’s much more misshapen;

in need of professional tailoring,

no hand-me-down suit from grandad

he could build his own from.

A self taught seamstress,

his garments came out wearable;

new outfits made intimacy difficult

space became their comfort.

Still they wanted it to fit,

paint a Rockwell for baby;

self taught painters too,

masterpieces out of reach,

unless they had Polluck’s luck.

Their style when fighting;

each with different color dipped brushes,

splattering the canvases,

me right in front of it.

A beautiful gap toothed grin,

paint stained face,

messes didn’t make baby upset.

A perfect blank silhouette instead,

surrounded by war spattered canvas,

began with the best intentions;

intentions are rarely enough

art isn’t derived from intent.

It takes careful redirections and subtleties,

becoming an artist,

capable of feeding yourself.

Maybe creating works of children

wasn’t for everyone?

Afterthoughts haunted them;

once they put the clothes on

couldn’t take them off.

Now they knit baby clothes,

best as they can;

Self taught knitters too,

baby is glad to be warm,

warmth was enough for a newborn.