A Letter from a Daughter to her Mother

With no clothes on, true freedom beckons near,
And cool, light breezes calm my prickled skin,
Until I think a strange and silly fear:
How would that water feel with my feet in it?
That old tin jug is colder than crushed ice;
It chills the blood that runs through my flushed cheeks.
That basin does not do much to entice:
From me it garners some protesting squeaks.
With your strong arms you hold me very still;
In your rough skirts I can feel gentle heat,
And on your lap I sit and watch you spill
The water from the jug onto my feet.
They both now in the basin calmly stand
With you rubbing dirt off them; I relax,
Remembering the feeling of your hand,
Secure in thought that time's stopped in its tracks.
The day will come when I’ll be tall like you,
And I’ll no longer fit into your lap,
So moments like these are ones I’ll review;
They’ll be the ones that'll dash free from time’s trap