An Old Sonnet, for my Daughter Lee
When I got home my wife was gone, and so
I bought a mandolin—eight more strings
To tie me to a world I didn’t know,
In which my daughter’s fenced from me by rings
Of law and fear. Almost the only things
Her mother let us share before the end
Were meals and music. Maybe she still sings
“I’ll Meet You in the Morning” with a friend,
And thinks of me, and remembers how we’d spend
Our Wednesdays with a funny jugband song,
A round, a Scottish air. I could depend
On her to get them right when I was wrong—
Her ear was better. She was eight years old.
What songs we sang when she was mine to hold!