A Poem for My Daughters

Winding a blue
sea of swirled green,
black letters,
and an angelfish
tightly around
each of her fingers,
she soon resembles
a baby Bob Cratchet
The address labels
form minimalist
reverse fingerless gloves
for my three-year-old daughter Shea
Her laugh, jolly
Her smile, cheerier than boughs of holly
when she gently kisses
the forehead of her baby sister Lizzi,
whose chin glistens with teething drool
At that moment
I know that the ungilded beauty
(pine tree-green, not money-green)
of the season
has ebbed ocean-like over me