A Poem From My Daughter

In between studying for a chemistry exam, planning a bridal shower and fighting a nasty poison oak outbreak, my oldest daughter wrote me this poem. Needless to say, I cried.

To My Mom

When I was a little mite

I dreamed of queens and gold and jewels

I thought of famous ladies

With their diamonds and their silks

Olive oil and baths of milk. 

My mind imagined graces,

beautiful, perfected laces.

Examining and turning
les femmes of history,
I realized with a startled visage

none, not one of these damsels, 

could hold a million candles

to the one that is you.

There is in you a grace so sure,

a love which has, which will endure.

A face so breathtakingly beautiful,

Helen of Troy would be held so dull.

This was when I was a little mite,

but now I am grown.

My hypothesis is tested and found right.

I live now in a reality with a created being,

who lives a life of solid meaning,

the fairest of fair among all the women.

by Emelie Pepito