Now you are eight my little poet and bright you burn. A ray of sun in the world that promises much for a future not yet composed. Your face radiant and your words stronger and surer each day. Strong in limb and in mind my how you grow. Not so long ago to me a babe you were and a bundle in constant need of me. You need me still and you always will but it will be less and less and for that you will make me proud. My central son, my poet, my Daniel.