You married a young dark haired girl who played

piano hymns in chords steady like stone.

Her hips, her skin, her waist, woman displayed

who always sun and leaves and world had known.

She came to you, suggestion from above,

so lithe, easy, and giggling all the while,

conceived a child the first time you made love

and bore her with an adolescent smile.

This round baby, more knowing than your wife,

had intimations of the worldly world.

Her eyes were wise like yours, like books and life.

A sage, that babe, philosophers had lured.

You found your joy with family for a while;

time passed. The youngest one was not the child.