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For Olivia, on the Day of Your Birth

Olivia, I love you, though we have
Not yet met, technically speaking, as
A bag of skin and other things has kept
You hidden from us for these many months
(Except occasional soft kicks and jabs
Against your mother’s ribcage and below),
But now the day is nearly here, the day
When we will meet, and I will hold you close –
Your chest against my own, your eyes on mine,
With your whole body in my hands – and tell
You secrets of the universe, those things
That other people might ignore and yet
You’ll need to navigate your way,
Such things as “Johnny Cash’s voice is God’s;”
“Walt Whitman’s words trace half the human soul;”
While “Dickinson’s survey the other;” “Oils
Picasso painted show that genius can
Be nearly infinite;” though “Those van Gogh
Produced reveal there’s darkness underneath
It all as well”… and on and on… I could
Continue, but I best save something – yes? –
For when we meet and you are safe within
My arms against my chest, as then we’ll have
Some time to get acquainted, for me to watch
You grow, to change some diapers and to tell
You all my silly aphorisms and
How much you mean to me, Olivia.

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