My daughter's Morning

My Daughter’s Morning

My daughter’s morning streams

over me like a gang of butterflies

as I, sour-mouthed and not ready

for the accidents I expect

of my day, greet her early:

her sparkle is as the edge of new

ice on leafed pools, while I

am soggy, tepid; old toast.

Yet I am the first version

of later princes; for all my blear

and bluish jowl I am welcomed

as though the plastic bottle

I hold were a torch and

my robe not balding terry.

For her I bring the day; warm

milk, new diaper, escapades;

she lowers all bridges and

sings to me most beautifully

in her own language while

I fumble with safety pins.

I am not made young

by my daughter’s mornings;

I age relentlessly.

Yet I am made to marvel

at the durability of newness

and the beauty of my new one.