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My Daughter, Finding Her Way


road maps urge her

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west, adorn the highways

up ahead with canyons,

caves, with thin

parched waterfalls

and buttes. She stops

to photograph

the sky, its layered

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darks and streaks

of light. The road signs

sing the passing

states: Nebraska, where

her dad was born,

Wyoming, Utah, next

Nevada. California yet

to come. She camps

where smells of last

night's rain hang

sweet as fragrance

on a woman's wrist.

This girl who once

called me collect from

Greece: It's the Acropolis,

all lit up at 2 a.m.

still dares the distances

too far for me, still

sees beyond what

I can see. In this she

is her father's child

both trusting in

the truth of maps and

brave enough to find

their way where

maps leave off.

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