To My Daughter Juliet

Written by Cynthia Connell Davis

My Daughter Juliet, born February 22, 1962

The spring you were born came late.
Trees were still bare at the end of April.
I was disappointed by bare branches.
I had never cared before. 

It was your coming to me
with your beautiful sapphire eyes
that made me notice.
It took an extra month for yellow to foam around the willows.
I brushed my lips and nose  across your soft head
a thousand times.

Now 19 years have passed
and when I see you looking at me
as if we are in love, I'm uncomfortable;
it seems unnatural.
But then, why should I not love you so
when the terror and torture of your birth
awakened all my seasons?