Impressions from the first visit

It is a cold place.
The attempts at color highlight the dominant theme,
Soviet gray,
walls, stairs, hearts.
A man and his woman are abandoning their baby today.
Perhaps they have other errands; he seems in a hurry.
Down below I will meet my daughter.
Twelve years have passed since she was the subject of such a scene,
with her twin, though, "No information on father".
I am the first father she has had,
and she lies across my lap,
this sack of potatoes - if Fabergé made potatoes.
She is deformed,
the weight of others' sin has distorted her skull and jaw and life.
She seems to have spent years - a decade? - on her left side,
her ear folded and her legs crossed,
for so she now sits, hips twisted like the past of the orphanage.
Yet she turns her head,
her eyes like two brown sunflowers
following the sound of her name,
and catching my gaze and smile.
Her country grows many such flowers,
in field, garden, and orphanage.
And they are beautiful,
as God made them to be.