by: James Lenfestey
A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent,
holding earth and sky together with her shadow.
She sleeps upstairs like mystery in a story,
blowing leaves down the stairs, then cold air, then warm.
We who at sixty should know everything, know nothing.
We become dull and disoriented by uncertain weather.
We kneel, palms together, before this blossoming altar.
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A poem that really captures my feelings tonight.
I know that this time comes in every father's life. I've spent my whole father life protecting my daughter, spoiling her, drying her tears, bandaging her scrapes and cuts. Now, I'm feeling it all slipping away at this end of summer time.
Things are changing, and I don't deal well with change.
Saint Marty is going to have a tough school year.
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