Psalm of thanks in late February as I fall asleep

Where are the ten thousand fingers that
Knitted you
Inside of me?
The ones that wrote your ears
To soar when you smile
And painted your skin with
Olive oil and such promise of growing
What music played as your flower eyes were plucked
From the furthest field and now we are seen,
So much like your father under dark strands of youngest hair.

What wild imagination laid a tiny womb inside my own?
Oh the hope that was born with you my baby girl.

I listen as you sigh close by
And we both give way to our eyes closing
I whisper thanks with my every breath
For you,
My jubilation.