Flesh of my flesh, in essence your own;
I nurtured and loved what God gave on loan;
Our time in the water has quickly slipped by;
I gave you your wings – child, take to the sky.
His love was a fledgling –
awkward in its moulting,
a pupation of sorts.
His grasp of her essence
floundered in the reeds
where others moved sure;
and twittered, juvenile
in proportion and quality.
But true love has a way
of making a man;
where finesse was lacking,
perseverance found flight –
I still see them soaring, now and then,
where time and age cannot clip their wings.