by Paul C. Binotto

© 2012

 My daughter came to me when she was eighteen.
I missed her coos, her cries, her wiggles.
Her bows, pig tails, her “whys?”, her pouts, and giggles.
All that happened in between then and eighteen.
Only four months, maybe six, before she’d leave,
On her own, still so young and green.
Now my heart breaks for the times between,
The day she came and the day she’d leave.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.