A Baby in My Arms

A tiny hand leans in my,
heavy as fallen leave,
as her cosmic eyes gleaming
under sparse black hair,
pull me in.

Now in my arms, resting close
to my body fully conscious
of her smallness, she
unfolds a pure warmth
to part all paths of sorrow,
before illuminating my core.

P.S.: It's frustrating sometimes, when I feel more than I can write. And poetry-writing is really manual work for the mind, where you plow and plow for words, getting your hands all dirty, metaphorically, that is.