Fourteen

She is the delicate and contained
pulse in my wrist, an insistent and tender reminder of my mortality.
My daughter at fourteen shines like a mirror through skin close to
her bones, drawn smooth and tight with hope; she is a song I sing
with grace.

I watch as she bends her neck to contain the tender oboe reed between
her lips, and I touch each round shining bone, tuning my hopes to her
grace note.