Ode To A Four Year Old            

              A birthday comes but once a year,     

           You've leaped from three to four;    

   Dreams turn to what to wear, 

 And girlish things galore.     

    At three you were quite elfish,

You loved to kiss and hug;  

And often you were selfish,

Giving brothers quite a tug.

        You grew with disappointments,  

      Were strong and yet, so fragile, 

           Required doctoring appointments,

While learning to be agile   

          No stitches seemed to phase you,

Or hamper you in play;      

Anything would you do,    

For means of making gay.

      But now, you've gained a year,

And have matured to four; 

To play is not so dear,        

 As dancing about the floor.

You want to be a dancer,     

   At four, you are quit certain; 

Ballerina and high prancer,

To play before the curtain. 

You are, as yet, quite tiny, 

     With dreams that do astound; 

      Your eyes so wide and shiny,  

 Curiosity does abound.      

     You really are quite serious,  

In everything you say;     

              Sometimes making me delirious,   

     In a wonderful sort of way . 

I treasure all the days,     

In each and every year;   

But seeing you today,      

 Can't help but cause a tear.

     You've begun to color nicely,

          And your printing is quite plain,

      The alphabet is said precisely;

 You even write your name.

                 What can I say except, "I Love You",

        And this much you must know,

                 Birthdays are happy yet painful, too,

It hurts to see you grow.   

            It doesn't seem you could be four,

       You've grown all quite too fast;

         Today, I give my love to store,   

A present that will last!      

                                                Lynn Cavanaugh