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To My Daughter at her Dressing Table
Slow and shy your fingers are,
  Hesitating as they trace
Patterns from a drugstore jar
  On the morning of your face.
A touch of that?  A pat of this?
  Your eyes are wide with ageless fears;
(I used to calm you with a kiss
  And rock away the simple tears).
Grace is with you as you bend
  To straighten, frowning, twisted seam
And lithely turn, bemused, to tend
  Your glossy hoard of paint and cream.
Aching, I watch you in this alien land
And gaze on beauty in your artless hand.
                              By Elinor Wikler
                              Published in Counsel Magazine