Awefully Proud

My grown-up girl,
I’d like to say,
It seems as if
Just yesterday
The tender age
Of twenty-two
Was what the world’d
Tattooed on you.
We watched the moon
Both rise and sink,
Then Sunday’s sun
Fell on the ink
And, lo, the digits
Hadn’t changed!
(It’s possible
They’d rearranged
But who can tell
With palindromes?
It’s not like they
Were chromosomes
Which might express
A sequence change
With eyebrow hands
Or something strange
Like fingers sprouting
From your cheeks,
But overnight?
That stuff takes weeks!)
My point is,
You’re still twenty-two,
And I am still
In awe of you.


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