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.
Fostertales 