To Evelyn, aged Nine Months

I watch my daughter, white and gold just now and drooling,
And marvel at the discreteness of her,
Of the rounded line of belly that starts and ends with her.

There was a time when I could not separate
The line of her from me.
The swelling of my belly was at once both the same.

Now she beams at me, a nearly toothless mouth ajar,
And scoots closer, reaching, as if closeness could compensate for separation.
Our bridge of arms embracing exists across a gulf
(A bridge both evidence and access point);
Our separate sight mute witness to maternal division,
Immutably dividing one into two.

I watch her growing,
Watch thoughts, not mine, starting opaque behind dark eyes,
Watch intentions unfolding in chubby hands reaching for other tasks,
And with feelings shaded proud and bittersweet,
I marvel at the discreteness of her.



(NB: It's funny to me, not ever having been much for love poetry for myself, that I now find myself inspired to write what amounts to a love poem to my daughter.)