My little boy no longer, but a man,
I wonder at his strength, of many kinds,
Such as the gift of writing that he can
Use subtly to capture people’s minds.
His songs, his tales, his poetry just soars
And frees me from the mundane and the dull,
He turns a laughing eye upon my flaws
And makes my glass perpetually full.
So many times I look at him and see
The tiny child that clung onto my hand
Who’s still inside the man in front of me,
To whom I tilt my head up as I stand.
I see his skills and know he will achieve
Those things that form the substance of his dreams,
And all who watch him work also believe
That he will be the master of life’s schemes.
She’s full of life and promise, on her way
To a future of her own unbound design.
She says things I would never think to say
I don’t know how I dare to call her mine.
She makes me laugh too often to recall
The words she twists and turns to make her own.
She leaps with style although she fears the fall.
She’s not a sheep, It’s she who sets her tone.
My little one, the baby of my four,
Displays to all the world a certain grace.
A dancer who can halt the room before
Her as she sets a sweet and measured pace.
She’s finding where she fits as time goes by
By trying every chance that wanders in,
By asking what and when and where and why
And when it’s time she lets the song begin.