The oldest of us—
the great-grandma on
her 92nd birthday—

holds the youngest of us—
the great-grandson—
3 weeks old to the very day,

on a perfect July evening under
a sheltering oak older than any of us,

the great aunt taking a turn
in between cuddles with
his mom and grandma,

some of us remembering
previous summer birthdays
on this deck when the youngest
among us played Jenga or
cornhole,

but now we sit or linger
over the one holding Henry,
sleeping mostly, even with
a bottle between his perfect
little lips—

his aunt and uncle, mom and dad,
great aunt and great uncle,
and the matriarch of this little family—

time stopped, or maybe
holding its breath, in this
present of a present moment,
all of us struck by the wonder
of the one newly born,
sleeping soundly, so content,
so beloved.