(My wordsmith daughter reminds me in many ways of Shakespeare’s Beatrice,
who said of her birth: “Sure ... my mother cried,
but then a star danced,
and under that was I born”
)
Not just a star danced, O my darling daughter,
when you were born, but life’s star itself, the sun,
which honeys now your skin, burnishes brighter
and lighter than mothflame your hair, as you dance and run
naked on the grass, scattering petals behind you,
a pagan summer spirit, arms outstretched
to embrace whatever, whoever is around you
in the soft fire of your love; a flame fetched
to kindle a fading earth your love is: “I’m sorry,”
you said to an old man, “you walk with a stick,” and you smiled
and lightened his morning; you have filled the house with a flurry
of pansies you grew yourself. My enchanted child,
may you always be happy as now you are
and startle this winterish world, my summer star.