our granddaughters
our granddaughters, now 12 and 15,
are settling into the selves
into which they were born,
into which they craft themselves,
into how parenting and friends and school
help them figure out the paths to follow,
the older laughs at the currently inexplicable:
that of ultimate origins, of indeterminacy and whim,
the puzzle to her more of joy than fearful trouble,
the younger captivates us with the twinkle of her soul,
despite the shutters of self-doubt
that adolescence gauntlets upon her,
just as flowers bloom whether I’m there or not,
so do our granddaughters bloom when we’re not with them,
how wondrous when fortune allows us moments
to witness the next attempts of the universe at perfection.
by Henry H. Walker
June 19, ‘20
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