Poetry Sunday

Greetings from the breakfast room of the Holiday Inn Express in Singen, Germany, on this damp, cold, overcast morning. But at least it isn't sleeting or snowing. Yet. Sigh.

On this first Poetry Sunday of December, I reflect on the fact that my oldest grandchild, Marcy, is fourteen. It's not easy to relate to a girl child of that age ...

Bouquet

by Jerry Roscoe

Today is my daughter's fourteenth birthday
So I bought her roses—five red, nine pink—
To commemorate impending womanhood. She liked
Them I think better than the balloons her mother
& I would sneak into her room while she slept
To celebrate birthdays one through thirteen.
Or maybe she was just humoring me
Who had just turned fifty & looked ridiculous
Standing there in her doorway, holding them
Like a torch. "Soon enough," the Fates were
Whispering, but I doubt she heard them,
Soon enough she would. Still she left off
The internet, cradled & squeezed the thorny blooms
& gave me an authentic look not what I usually get.

Love your daughters and granddaughters. They grow up much too quickly.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo