Foundling

I treasure small things—
sunrise, sunset blushing
gold in sand-veiled sky,
star shine dressing night,
swaying palm tree’s shade.

This harvest of my womb
I also love,
enough to relinquish
at the Nile’s edge,
swaddled in bulrush ark,
unnamed.

I do not surrender your hazel eyes,
curled feet and chestnut locks willingly,
but submit you to God and current all the same.

Can we not cherish what we discard?
Is love’s true measure not in letting go?