She lays curled in her father's cupped hands.
Mother's hands folded around his.
Her tiny hands together in seeming prayer,
pillowed under her porcelain cheek.
Breath-taking, breathless, beauty.
never to see sun, sky, moon.
She is so perfect, so delicate, so small.
Hardly there at all.
A tiny bud plucked too soon from her cozy womb.
A tiny bud waiting to open,
never to flower.
A still life photograph.
Those two large hands,
She doesn't seem real this fragile fairy-child.
that for only a few brief hours
had come to light.
Dream come true.
Dream made flesh.
being laid to rest
in those impossibly large loving hands.
Dreams of what would be,
fading in the harsh glare of
never will be.
She lay in the palms of her father's hands,
enfolded by her mother's sorrow.
So incredibly, unbelievably small.
As time passes by,
[Author's note: This is not my story, but it is a heartbreakingly true story.]