Seventy-Four

Seventy-four is
not a multiple of the
senryu or haiku,

but the number of
days the little one spent in
the plastic confines,

growing from tiny
sprout into something bigger,
just a modest bit.

Now at home in her
mother's arms, sleeping like the
pure being she is,

uncorrupted and
spiritual, letting time
lapse at her own pace

because low birth weight,
all nine-hundred thirty grams
of her, makes her growth

one that refuses
to follow some kind of set
within stone timeline.

Despite the setbacks,
she remains the sweetest thing
between these four walls,

like the low-power
radio stations that blast
the Good News to the

four corners of the
world, the seven perfection
in additive form,

one savior tacked with
three iron nails onto a
cross made from pine wood,

pure and unblemished,
just like the gurgling babe
in the bassinet.

Act of the random,
or something preplanned by a
divine watchmaker?

The answer hidden,
playing into the hands of
the hard atheist.

Yet, his truth lies in
the harmonic middle of
both polar extremes.

The number of days
is numeric perfection
above the senryu

multiplied by the
corners of the Earth, one more
awesome happenstance.

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[Ed Hart]

one more awesome happenstance of fact and word