The Girl at 17
He awoke each morning into the routine.
The sun through the latticework, the flannels, the water in the kettle,
the filling, the emptying.
The no man’s land between slumber and task asked very little of him,
so he gave very little back.
No grumble nor sigh cracked the bland evenness of it.
Until The Girl crowded the room with her glow,
all sleepy eyes and tangled hair.
He can feel his smile from way down inside, loving her now
and remembering her pretty pink face on the day she was born.
Her clinched eyes and silent hello to the world while gripping his finger
with all of hers.
How could he ever have considered a life without her?
And how did she leap from swaddled to sidewalk chalk & lemonade stands
to a glorious young woman of 17?
The object of his pride, the holder of his heart.