The Rose.

Deep inside I wear with pride
a rose I cut and set aside,
For a pretty girl, a cunning daughter,
(a match for any man that sought her).

Upon that day I put away
a glay-zed cup I'd made from clay,
To hold the sweat of fevered skin
and catch the dew of infant grin.

In her sleep a promise keep:
(steal a glance both long and deep)
writhe and shudder in shrouded dream
a hand on hand to quell the scream.

And when she leaves to build a place
away from paltry parents grace
grown and gone, her young mind certain
across my doubts to draw a curtain.

Deep inside I wear with pride
a rose I cut and set aside,
For a pretty girl, a cunning daughter,
(a match for any man that sought her).

For my pesky little daughter.