From Mom

Sweet Sixteen and her bedroom is empty.
She's gone to follow her dreams.
There was a time I thought she'd stay little.
Childhood isn't as long as it seems.

Her bed is made neatly, her lights are turned off;
The lights that she used every night.
The scriptures she studied are all packed away.
They're with her, still bringing her light.

The desk where she studied is barren and clean.
Pencils at rest, lists are done.
Once there were stacks of highlighted papers
Where there were many are none.

The weather is good in the snowglobe collection,
Clear-water skies make a silent tableau.
Of places she's been and the things she's discovered.
Each scene softly waits the next snow.

The sheet music closed, the flute put away.
The arpeggios, etudes and scales
Don't run up and down through the house anymore
Telling their beautiful tales.

Next to the mirror, a costume bag hangs
The tutus inside it are still,
That once floated and twirled and lifted and soared.
They are nothing without Golda's skill.

Her pointe shoes are worn through and getting a rest,
The satin ribbons wound neatly.
These shoes saw the dancer through pain and elation.
They know Golda's true heart completely.

The stillness upstairs will one day be broken
When our daughter comes rushing back in
Carrying with her a summer's new eyes,
And then the next chapter begins.


Thanks mom