Tulip

The baby’s name was there,

Right on the tips of their tongues,

Tantalizingly ready to spray into the open air,

And then it was gone,

Not to be revealed, at least not that day.

So we continue to call her Tulip,

And I imagine her face,

Her impossibly tiny hands,

Her outrageously demanding cry,

The wiggly warmth of her newborn body.

For this, and for her name, I will wait.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh

Newborn infant in Nepal
Photo by Krish Dulal
from Wikimedia Commons