Only a Father Could Know

Only a father could know
      the eloquence of his infant daughter.
The broad vowels and clumsy consonants
      of her, "I'm glad you're here,"

the half-eyed droning
      of sleep's soon arrival,
and the soft cooed morning greeting
      before she knows she's hungry.

Then there is the sharp shrill sound
      of pain, and the tremendous
weight of caring for someone,
      at once, so clear and unspecific

and I suppose this is to say -
      I want You but do not know how,
and that -
   this is the meaning
      of my silence.