Fragile Blossoms

Two fragile babies are resting in my barn-- 
They are pink with newness and frailness and not-quite-finished-ness, 
with glistening fur so fine it barely covers delicate skin. 
They are velvet-and-blush like apple blossoms.

In the orchard surrounding the barn, each gentle breath of air across the trees
brings a blizzard of petals to the ground.

Perhaps these babies will be as fleeting as those honey-scented blooms.
Or, maybe they will find their roots, dig deep into life, and thrive to old age. 

In the quiet hours of a cold night, I hold them beneath the warming lamp
and wonder if these gossamer creatures are here to stay.

In whose hand is the life of every living thing, And the breath of all mankind?

Job 12:10