Wisdom of the newborn

Expressions on her face come and go, like waves

On the shoreline of a pristine honest ocean

Each with a succinct story, an adult will spill a million words for

There is no audience, save herself

For this genuine play

Of which life is the author (potter), and her face his clay

Ah! what stories she tells

Some sublime and some passionate

Some pale and some in blood red

Some with cries, and some in silence
As her tiny body twists and turns

And small hands in mittens flay thin air

Stories of ghostly battles being fought besides the door
of spirits hovering near the curtains and goblins on the floor
 

They say the newborn's eyes are for the unseen
For connecting with the profound wisdom of those unborn
Through her soundless lips that spout bubbles of air
Her pleades are about us 'elders' fallacies in life

In her suppossed ignorence we find our bliss
In  her urgency, we see vulnerability
In her clarity of thoughts we search for our cloud of language
And in those limited times when her divinity dawns on us, we shudder!

But recover and lamely, try and teach.