Swaddled in a nest of pink

little flesh-bud faces flush

against the skin of mother’s

instinct, bundled in the

lull of milk-sleep, soft sink

into rose-patch cheek

the color of passivity

everywhere, little girls in

tulip-shaped dresses and

roll-back baby eyes, the

fuss and frill of pastel

lace, a tiny hand grip

surprise, who would

ever guess the strength

of that shade, the layers

within the hue, in each

hospital nursery room

the baby-cry of spring

bloom, bouquets of pink

flowers for each pink

bundle, uprooted, plucked

and placed into a ribbon-

tied vase, fisting against

the air, rising tall and strong

as they do every year.