Daughter Dawn Christine wakes
under gray cracked South Bend, Indiana skies.
Date is November 3, 1965, Memorial Hospital.
The moon moves back, shelters this infant.
Dawn shows her face for the first time.
God is a deliveryman, right on time.
Young parents, we sweep hallways
with my mother Edith, reduce rent,
we survive, train me as a typewriter repairman.
Basinet borrowed, repairs use it for a Christ child.
Life is a shade, spectrum of pink.
Now this blue rain, pink sunshine,
life shows up, movement drifts south.
Glass is a reflection of early decisions glazed.
Young green infant eyes open waves on the Atlantic,
toss inland brackish waters lie between North and South.
Heritage is my belief; you born into sanctuary —
followers who grab you say prayers.
Titusville, Merritt Island, your habitat.
Life is a dream of Jesus, Dow Chemical, cookie face leftovers, Dawn face, fantasies.
Dawn Christine is always a baby pink, large memory in my brain cashed out early.
I am a father clock stymied; scratched, scabbed, song whistles birds of prey.
Dawn captures me, resurrects me — a distinct tone rings backward at me.
Dawn Christine is a good baby.
Sandy is a good mother.
Life in a capsule moves on.
Michael Lee Johnson lived in Canada for ten years during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 8 poetry sites. Author’s website: poetryman.mysite.com. He has over 68 poetry videos on YouTube.