I feel February is favorite
along with the melting of winter snow
a time to step on back and watch youth grow,
to ponder favorite days from where I sit.
I think about you daily my daughter.
In February you and I must dance,
to spin around the sound as if in trance,
no greater dance than daughter with father.
Though favorites generate a long list
when family gathers for evening meal
or summer trips on weekends to the pool.
A place where all these memories exist
embedded on a silent movie reel.
This dance a movement, movement as a tool.
Three Februaries from the last three years
in different places around our old home,
in cities or where wild horses would roam,
a different dress, different mirrors.
We hold our arms outstretched as we turn round.
One year in church, the other theater space,
your floral print or Wonder Woman lace
and so a better day has not been found.
The day that Isaac Newton explained how,
the day that Montaigne finished his essays,
the day that scientists cured the small pox,
we throw this all off with a sudden “CIAO”
and jump on the dance floor with love and praise,
to end her evening sleeping in her socks.
Sometimes I slip into the memory,
the physical memory of each turn
to witness the joy inside of your burn,
oh daughter, dance this part of your story.
Each year your hand upon my hand will grip,
a healthy grip that holds us together.
We dance in the rain or any weather,
to tighten every year avoiding slip.
My daughter when you have grown up so tall
I cannot see beyond your adult grace
and listen to your life every day.
Will we still take the time off for a ball
and find our memories hard to replace
on dance floor where our waltzing feet will sway.
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