Perfect Children
When I was young, I wrote poems about
blue-eyed, blonde haired children
that I expected would one day be mine,
perfect children envisioned by my mind.
Isn't it ironic that I used to say
I hoped I wouldn't have
red-haired children?
You are my beautiful daughter,
green-eyed, red-haired
perfect.
And you, my sons, blue eyes and green eyes,
exactly the sons a mother would wish for.
All those poems have blown away, erased
by the breeze of time.
But you remain.
You are the children of my heart.
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