A note about my daughter-who just found out
the family jewels, are really hers.
Delivered from the chrysalis of my conception
she is now breaking her shell,
timidly stretching her paper wings;
dandelion dreams reaching for the sun.
A mothers eyes see all around
the way she stares, intently noting
what not to be
come to be carried
wandering like the dandelion star
resting in the budding garden of youth
fluttering with the whims of a wind
Her weightless wishes float.
Yet I cannot catch them all,
and some wishes may fall.
But she may just find her signature piece
in my opulent, overflowing box of beads.
Glimmering gems and jaded jewels
are for many women magic tools
(I watched her peach plastic knuckles round,
silk-woven skin searching for just the right one).
But Mom's old treasure box has none...
(My own crackled reptilian talon
clawing among the scraps)
Mothers fumbly fingers needle the necklace,
a meticulous malady, a mission to immature
an unbrandly new manifestation.
Elated with our fine creation,
two of a generation,
and a broken jewelry bead box.
"This choker rocks!"
Restrung,
just for the young.
Image By William McGregor Paxton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
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