The Daughter' Poem by O. C. Woods

The muse of mornings and evenings
is running from room to room, in small wooden steps
procratination's fading away when she shines
tears dried up under her purple spells

will the sequel equal the first draw?
will I be worthy of her being there beauty that is raw
her name is the answer to dark days and wounded paw
don't grow up with haste dear comet once we saw

days dripping fast to sunny rays of Spring
stars sending me all their envious poems you wear with your ring

grateful to love the presence of Little Nowadays Star
don't ever worry about passing clouds, I never far.


O.O.W
11-16-2011
02-05-2012
03-23-2012
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