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 |
1958 |
Published in
Counsel Magazine |