Strange, I often catch myself
trying to watch my children grow,
though I know I really can’t.
But I can’t help trying
to spot the slightest change,
to unfurl their grown-up body,
curled up inside them.
I can tell my little girl, eleven now,
has left her child-like face behind,
her eyes point down more now
and her arms and legs have grown
ahead of her boyish torso.
Every day I take another
snapshot and file it away,
taking care not to bend
the corners down. But I know
I’ll never look them up again –
I won’t stop taking pictures anyway.
This poem was written/submitted by David Herin.