Spring is a sort of wishful thinking / a door half-open, unable to decide.
An infant bursting into white light wails. Shattering, the sound wave washes outward and is lost in the general background hum. A tired mother clings to the echo.
This is a glum poem, so I'm including a baby sloth. I think we need not fear to sin, for sin has grown less deadly. Take avarice. The bankers have, and yet it seems that they will own the world and more.