A Daughter and Son

Beautiful

My girl, a woman.

We talk of love and fights,

work and dreams like girlfriends.

She has infinite patience

with the "when you were little" stories

that are now multiplying, their goodness

and simplicity comforting me

like a soft blanket over a sheet of doubts.

I search for myself in her deep-set eyes

so different from mine, nothing that can be seen

is the same, but maybe our souls.

Where am I in the wondrous thing she's become?

Where did she learn to forgive so well,

to delight in so little,

to love so beautiful,

even though I thought I'd shown her

everything I did not want her to see?

Soon she will fly, her hands

will make beautiful things

and she will be more.

There is no beginning or end to a daughter,

in the endless sychronicity of mothers and daughters

each generation is more and

she will be more than me.

Son

A son makes you laugh

because he is a man

as you never imagined.

You hear manly words

and you giggle with delight

in the surprise of it all.

The joy in the aftermath of anger

is an oracle, its message

is the long-awaited tranquility.

Then the cleaning out of your

overflowing trunk of prayers

is like the ending

of your favorite book.

And when you hear that

manly voice say Mom,

it's the only voice you've ever known.