A poem about my daughter when she was little…

Squint to Find a Focus

In the close air of bedtime I skim
your velvet cheek with my raspy
finger.  You’re dozing your way toward
dreaming in skin like mine.

Your front teeth, pigeoned together,
are Grannie’s.  And your
puppy feet.  And your cinnamon eyes.

But the shape of your eyes
is Dad’s.  Hands down.  Evolved
to blink at ancient sand, they abide
now, devoid a desert.

By hazy morning, you startle me there
in the rearview mirror, with your
pouty mouth and lifted chin.

Just last night I was sure
you were mine.  But the cast
of day refracts my resolve, and I
squint to find a focus.

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