Seventeen parachute-cloth lambs surround my face like a wedding veil
Trailing from my fuzzy head to my infant toes.
The pink-white bars of my crib cozily crowd around me
Like aspen trees clustered in a wintry forest.
I can’t say much, maybe a word or two,
But I see everything with spongy-bright eyes.
I soak in the colors of my nursery room
as I tighten my silver-dollar fists around a lambs squishy foot.
Soon I will call them lamby,
and one by one
They will disappear
Till only a single, slobbery
With a soft-silky tag between its hind legs
fashioned for me to stroke between my chubby fingers.