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David Page, iSteve Coltman, iKaren Epp, iT.W. Fendley, iJoan Huffman, iCarol Fowler, iElizabeth Weeks-Rowe, i
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Rosalie Ferrer Kramer, click
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My first child, my first poem. At 22, she seemed to be my miracle. I still feel that way about her. She is now 50. Oops , now you know my age.
I REMEMBER IRIS
I recall someone funny, and oh so dear,
Ten little toes, and tiny pink ears.
A small baby shoe that's not three inches,
Lots of kisses, and giggles and pinches.
At eight still crying over a shot,
At three too busy to sit on the pot.
At eleven too active to pay attention.
At fourteen much too crabby to mention.
At sixteen she wanted to drive my car.
At eighteen, from college, we spoke from afar.
Now looking forward as mother may,
I pray that Iris will know some day,
The joy of a baby girl just like her,
Who'll wear those shoes that are oh so dear.
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