Image by Jamie Coupaud on Unsplash

In the newborn year, in the newborn decade, what is closest to me calls me to attend to what is sometimes distant.

In the room next door

My newborn granddaughter is crying,
seemingly inconsolable,
on a border
between dark and light,
womb and world.

I think suddenly
and slowly
of a migrant child,
newborn too,
far beyond this room
and yet so near –
we could hold out our arms.

There are primal words whispered
in a thousand tongues
“It’s all right”
“You’re all right”

May it be so.
In this newborn year
may it be so.