Poetry

By Mildred Barthel


With Love

“That’s our daughter,”
The father said, and began
To tell me about
The young woman at the harp
Who sat head high, hands
Poised, waiting the
Conductor’s nod. The father’s
Words came fast, with love.
And as he spoke
Memories flowed freely down
Sun-filled years of
Training to dignity.
We heard it all now in the
Ripple of music,
Saw it in her poise before an audience,
Felt it in the grace of her smile.