A little Angel, hands on hips,
sings, loud and clear, the “sunshine” song,
and when the song has left her lips
she wonders how I sang along.
“My ‘little Bob without a curl’
my Mother sang that song. I knew
another Bob, another girl,
another Angel much like you.”
She doesn’t know “the rugged cross”;
your other song, (she’s only three).
She doesn’t know she soothes my loss
with timeless magic; memories…
of mother singing to her boy,
of Bob and little Bob… and joy.
