My baby's skin

My baby’s skin is smooth like a warm lake at dawn. I run my finger from her shoulder to her hand.  It falls down at the first fold, a narrow but deep canyon, where stray hairs, milk and other detritus tend to gather, then rises to the pillowy fullness of another ring of soft, luscious, velvety baby fat.  Five folds separate the six marshmallows that make up her arm – grasping, reaching, exploring, wanting, loving.