Maureen

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.
 
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

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

Google photo

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

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter 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.