The Ides of March

January 13, 2014

It was an unseasonably warm
Spring afternoon, the sun took
Great pains to pierce the cold
Air surrounding us. Our path
Wound through the park, by
The pond where we once saw
A lonely turtle treading water.
Eventually we stopped to sit
Upon a faded yellow bench,
We three travelers, and rest.

“How old is she?” two women
Asked as they jogged by. Only
Just six months, tomorrow,
You answered smiling. It had
Felt like longer, but in a way
That charmed you as much
As her little fingers curled
Around yours did: perfect
And innocent and pure.

I sat quietly, unable to hide
Just how proud I was to be
Her father and your man.


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