by John Enright

Beautiful girl, you did not get
The childhood that all your friends
Experienced. No innocence
For you about the power of death
To chill the heart. Deep sorrow sends
The soul strange places. Ever since
That tragedy, you draw your breath
Less evenly. It bled you, yet
You stand now, strong and competent,
Worrier and warrior. But beneath
Your poise and sharp intelligence,
My little girl is what I sense.
And my own heart is warmed to see
You growing up so gracefully,
And, dare I say, triumphantly.