Mildred Luton (Dec 1912-Jun 2009) | American
I sing of tender curled-up things –
Of apple blossoms, baby fists.
New babe themselves, all half-moon curved,
And puffball ducklings. Each insists
On following an inner law
Of things new budded, hatched, or born
Refusing to release its hold
On G-d and uncurl to the morn,
And yet it follows that, in time
Each yielding to the outer world,
Repeats an ancient paradigm
As petals, feathers, legs unfurl,
And each one blossoms, given room –
The babe, the duck, the apple bloom.