On my window sill
are dirty broken pieces,
obviously “trash”
to anyone but me.
I, the father, see
bright and shining eyes
of my daughter, 10,
when she gave me
her new creation:
a replica, of sorts,
a child version,
of “Daddy’s house,”
that I’d built
and we lived in.
She was so proud.
That is what I see,
not those dirty bits
of trash.