on being just before

i left my phone in the car, catacombed  

in a parking garage on west 58^th

at the foot of mount sinai.

i’ve come to see my granddaughter

at twelve hours old, and my brain is joy-scattered.  

of course she is everything,

and her parents, the sunrise.   

they place her in my arms,   

filigreed eyelids shut against the bright din

after nine patient months in a bathyscaphe

submerged under a beating heart.

she will surface,

root for her mother’s breast, recognize the scent of her father’s shoulder

while i am for some time later.

that’s okay. blissful, i bide

in the hush before the prelude begins.

i left my phone in the car,

and have haste or distraction or providence

to thank

for watching my granddaughter gather.