Though I was not your potter,
I have always been your constant gardener.
When first I laid wondering eyes upon you,
And held your delicate limbs
Covered with the first morning dew,
I devoted myself
To season after season of caring for you.
I swore I would sing to you,
I would always keep you close and warm.
I would make sure your roots would always be nourished in good earth,
And I would be patient for my beautiful flower to bloom.
Seasons began to pass,
Each one more quickly than the last.
We spent busy days drinking in bright sun,
And lazy days soaking up cool rain.
Yet, I began to fear that my care had been lacking.
Maybe I should have sang to you more.
Maybe I should have kept you closer for warmth.
Maybe I should have fed your tender roots more.
I became afraid for you to be exposed and bloom.
Now your limbs are a tangled growth,
And I didn’t expect so many thorns.
And while you have become more complicated than I ever dreamed,
You have exceeded all expectations.
Maybe I did sing to you enough.
Maybe I did give you enough warmth.
Maybe your roots are delving deeply enough and becoming strong.
I can stand back now
And witness the glory as my daughter,
My little Madeline,
Begins to bloom.
I will always be there to sing to you.
I will always keep you warm, close to my heart,
And my roots will always help to anchor yours.
No, I was not your potter,
But your constant gardener,
Your loving father.