A young girl, bright, naïve, her voice commands.
Her palms outstretched to try and reach e’rything
the world could hold to only find her hands
were tiny, big enough only for swings.

A father, tired and widowed, works ‘til dark
to try and give his little daughter what
her mother can’t. He loves her like a lark
delights in song- can’t ever be without.

A happy tale of books and bubble baths,
Of laughs and dancing often in the rain.
A sad recount of aimless wand’ring paths
traversed by men who think their efforts vain

Despite all this, the ending we all know,
For time continues on, the girl must grow.