The Bedroom Door

Our home was quiet since her father left four years before.
A single bare yellow light bulb lit the porch
Where my little girl fell into the arms of a boy
As I had done years before, caught in the spell of a first love.

Weeks later, I stood outside her bedroom door,
A stoic sentinel holding thoughts of my first time.  
While listening to her laughter echo against the
walls of her modest room, I felt the sting of tears.  

The years had flown past me like the gentle weep of willows.
Memories stirred my own youthful giggles, long tucked away
In the corners of a heart that had since learned
To love in more desperate ways.  

I pictured her through the closed door, her naked lean body.
The room was still and I imagined how her hand hesitated.
Her soprano voice breaking the silence with his name
Told me they were joined as one flesh.

Her soft whimpers then told me of their rhythm, and I cried,
Not for the loss, but for the beauty of her bloom,
For the love that she'll know, and a life I hoped would be good.