Diversity Of Flowers Every time I look at my daughter's face, encircled by her lovely auburn hair, tempered with her blue eyes. I see the reflections of those who came befoe. I see the visions of her parents, her American father and Australian mother. I see my aunts and uncles, red headed men and women with Cherokee faces. I see the South African trader looking over his shoulder as a swarm of screaming Zulu warriors swoop down upon the village he had just left. I see the highlanders in their kilts standing in the falling snow with their families and everything they own, as their watch their houses burn, and wonder "What else is there?" I see the Mormons trekking across the country defending their families against the armed self righteous thugs of the towns they rolled through on their way to Utah. I see the knight coming over to the new world 130 years before John Hancock signed the Declaration of independence, settling a claim in the British colonies for his sons and daughters. I see the Irish, Germans, English, Scandinavians all struggling to survive in this foreign land, this sprawling Tower of Babel, foreign words singing in each of their ears. I see these and hear their songs, their stories, many largely forgotten, by all, but they can still be heard and read if one just listens to the beating of their heart. I feel my heart thump each time I look upon her, my Jacinta, my lovely flower, the hycacinth. I feel the love and fears of my forebears as I like they embark on the most frightening journey of all, parenthood.

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