Infant

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Infant

Sonnet

How inelegant is this new birth of me
Like an infant drawn by mid-wife hands,
Wailing and bawling amidst familiar voices
And all but a haze the eyes can see.

Trapped in a form, the parts all unsure
Of their workings, a mixture of instinct
And will and thought and touch distinct,
Breathing and crawling upon earth floor.

Yet sometimes I sit within as a Sage
And belie my age to soar above thought
Far above these hours with cares wrought,
Briefly escaping the limits of this cage.

In me the man, the animal and the clod
Prepare now a dwelling for the coming God.