Dear Zoe, you are nearly twelve,

Which is, from all that I can gather,

A strangely perfect age to have

      A new godfather.

It’s true, we haven’t to this point

Met live, in more than two dimensions,

But, with the help of Grace, we won’t

      Lack for occasions!

We’re poets, you and I, who craft

Words of joy, to the world attentive;

When stirred by mirth, our lines have laughed:

      When sad, turned plaintive.

Wystan Auden, that cheerful grouch,

In curious tone, in manner mild,

Once wondered, “Who am I to vouch

      For any Christian child?”

And I, a nervous quirky codger,

Several years later than him in history,

Must also take the time to ponder

     This beauteous mystery.

In one baptismal patron’s absence,

Can godfatherhood be transferred?

Some sticklers might exclaim, “Nonsense!

      That’s patently absurd!”

But in the realm of Christian love,

We are beyond church-rules transported!

I don’t know how, but Heaven Above

      Has got it all sorted.

So, wise goddaughter, as you grow,

And flourish to the strength of Woman,

Know that your soul has an amigo

      In this friendly, faulty human.