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 for my daughter on the eve of her 18th birthday.
Saint Marty is kneeling, palms together, before the gift of her.
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