A Poem From My Daughter

In between studying for a chemistry exam, planning a bridal shower and fighting a nasty poison oak outbreak, my oldest daughter wrote me this poem. Needless to say, I cried.

To My Mom

When I was a little mite
I dreamed of queens and gold and jewels
I thought of famous ladies
With their diamonds and their silks
Olive oil and baths of milk. 

My mind imagined graces,
beautiful, perfected laces.
Examining and turning
les femmes of history,
I realized with a startled visage
none, not one of these damsels, 
could hold a million candles
to the one that is you.

There is in you a grace so sure,
a love which has, which will endure.
A face so breathtakingly beautiful,
Helen of Troy would be held so dull.

This was when I was a little mite,
but now I am grown.
My hypothesis is tested and found right.
I live now in a reality with a created being,
who lives a life of solid meaning,
the fairest of fair among all the women.

by Emelie Pepito

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