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Francie Lynch Aug 2018
I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.
Francie Lynch Feb 2017
My name's Aine,
I'm just two,
I'm not nearly old as you.
I can't even tie my shoe.
But today,
All by myself
(OK, I had a little help),
But I sat on my *****
Just the same,
And peed and pooped
Like it's a game.
Tomorrow, I think,
I'll do it again,
In my velcro shoes.
Don't you wish someone would write an ode when we crap?
Perhaps a scatonnet.

— The End —