Ilex

                    after the birth of my nephew

Distracting myself, waiting for news,
I walked until I saw this white cluster
of holly growing at the base of a tree,

the stems yellowed, the angled clutch
of leaves like a bleached coral, a pale
antler, almost medieval, like a relic

unearthing in the gloom of the wood.
Later, still the baby would not latch,
and I came back to this holly, unhardened

by the sun, unable to turn the light
into strength. May it keep its whiteness,
may it never learn the use of spikes;

or, in time, when a crown is made of it,
may the people approach one by one
to witness how a fragile thing is raised.