It’s hard to believe, my thriving Beatrice,
that your years have moved from bimba and “Tink”
to scenes of awkward, teen-aged rinkydink,
and arriving soon, young womanhood’s riches.

Never forget what the great Dante teaches:
storm winds await all those who are mindless,
whereas kind ones enjoy wisdom’s reminders.
So the poet writes: In His will is our peace.

I wish you, dear one, God’s own present ear—
your ear, I mean, with heart that hears Him, too,
a little studio for entertaining Him.

It’s an accommodation that never fears
regrets nor fails to bear life’s weight that finds you.
On this memorable day, accept my simple theme.