MY DAUGHTER

I strain to hear
Her breathing now
I smooth her downy soft hair
Each little gurgle
Or her cry
Brings forth a throb of care
I know as
The years go by
My caring will not cease
But worry for her welfare
Could very well increase
No matter
That her baby hair
May change from
Brown to gold
And then ever so quietly
The gray will say she’s growing old
I’ll never stop my caring
My prayers I still will pray
My concern for her will still be there
Unto the end of my last day

Lucille Falk Miller (c) 1988