On Looking Into My Child’s Eyes

When, with the dullness of sleep,
memories of a lost age struggle
through the daily sacrifice of peace,
while blood and bones sing out new patterns,
filling all our rooms with ancient queries
voiced in infant rhyme;

I ask: 
Whence came the spirit of their flesh?
From some unconscionable alchemy before our time?
Or from beyond the ships of light
that scatter with their holy silence 
any mortal reckoning of our endless night?

Why do their eyes, like sleeping stars
burn, deep, bright and unrelenting
from those languid sockets,
holding me to ransom for a kiss?

I think untethered spirits,
careless as a breeze, or something else
as simple to dismiss, abides within,
and yet, nose to nose, before the laughter,
we two dissolve like hung infinities of darkness,
waiting for the Word.

I heard 
nothing but the stir of lashes beating.
Or was it wings 
that held us in the void while meeting?