Rosalind Jane you came.
The soft down of your cheeks, 
gassy smile, milky scent, 
wobbly brunette head
nestled on my chest.

Eyes open, looking around.
What’s it like to breathe air, 
hiccup, sneeze, bellow,
hear a dog bark, be licked, sniffed?

And your flailing arms and legs, 
luxuriant stretches,
the reaching open oval of your mouth 
like a small bird’s, eager to feed.

And in the fullness of life—
your mother, my granddaughter, nursing. 
And the memory of my mother
holding your mother.