Baby Talk

by Mark Belair

 

From where the baby was being held
in her mother’s arms, the cherry tree buds

trembled too far away for her to grasp,
try as she might, her mother—distracted

by cell-phone talk—keeping her
anchored with an abstracted grip,

the baby straining forward while
wriggling and pointing and swinging

at the fluttery petals her
fingers failed to touch.

So the baby finally reached out
to the scalloped pink loveliness

in the only way left:
in a burst of gibberish

made up of words made up
to engage this spray of spring,

eloquent nonsense that the baby,
lurching up, amplified upon

with yet more elaborate inventions,
her voice by then all but in song

trilling lyrics that connected her
to the wondrous flowers while

also connecting her, it seemed,
to the wondrous reach of words.