Now she is five. Oh, how can it be—
The girl who clings to her daddy’s hand.
Her sing-songy voice, her butterfly kisses
Her tea time stories, her little girl stand.

And again I hear the plaintive pleas
Issueing forth as they do each night
Calling for tales of daddies and daughters
That resemble remarkably two such as we.

Again I hold her delicate fingers.
Again I lead her in prayers of that sort
That come from a child who only knows trust
That speaks from a heart that believes what it hears.

This is the world of delight for the one
Charged with the safety and care of a muse.
And thus the bittersweet joy of a father
Who prays it will yet be when she is six.

D.W.P