The Thirteenth Poem

I have a goddaughter. She turns thirteen on Thursday. My promise to her as godfather was to write her a poem once a year for her birthday. So far so good. I’ve liked some of the poems I’ve written to her, but others have read like I was fishing for answers on paper. It’s hard to write a three year old a poem, or a seven year old. I’m not sure how I did it. I’m afraid to read them to tell you the truth. I remember the feelings I had while writing them, and having to turn them in on time. I’m a better poet now than I was then. If you do something long enough you’re bound to get better.

            I’m working on this year’s poem, and I’m having trouble with it. It’s reading funny. It’s choppy. It’s lacking subject matter. I want it to be good, but it’s testing me. I have time and I know I’ll finish it. The deadline looms. My goddaughter is looking forward to reading it, and I’m looking forward to giving it to her.