A Poem for My Daughters

Winding a blue
sea of swirled green, 
black letters, 
and an angelfish 
tightly around 
each of her fingers, 
she soon resembles 
a baby Bob Cratchet 
The address labels 
form minimalist 
reverse fingerless gloves 
for my three-year-old daughter Shea 
Her laugh, jolly 
Her smile, cheerier than boughs of holly 
when she gently kisses 
the forehead of her baby sister Lizzi, 
whose chin glistens with teething drool 
At that moment 
I know that the ungilded beauty 
(pine tree-green, not money-green) 
of the season 
has ebbed ocean-like over me


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