My Little Book of Poetry
Dedication
for Tsivia
Artist, musician, teacher, keeper of my heart
This book of poems is for you, my Tsivia—the second-born, yet first in rhythm and color, in harmony and light. You were “Smiley Joe” before you could even speak, radiating joy with every grin, melting hearts before you knew you held such power.
You are the melody in our family’s song, the brushstroke that brightens the canvas, the laughter that lifts the room. Your music, your art, your deep wells of feeling—all of it echoes in these pages, in every word and pause and breath.
Of all my children, you are the one who knows the glory of love, the beauty of love, and the pain of heartache with the most depth, wisdom, and experience. You wear the tenderness of the world on your sleeve, and you carry it with grace.
You are the one who speaks to my poet’s soul—not just with your art and your music, but with your words, your glances, and your unforgettable smile.
You hold the keys to my heart, and you play them like a piano, with grace, with mischief, with aching beauty.
For your creativity, your empathy, and your boundless imagination—this book is yours.
And to finish, I want to dedicate one poem in particular to you—a lyric I wrote when I was your age. It was originally set to a groove, one I think you'd like. Maybe I’ll even try to record it for you someday. It goes like this:
"Hey,
don't have to value anything,
it's just what it is.
Don't have to convince myself."
That’s the groove. Just let it be what it is.
Abba
for Tsivia
Artist, musician, teacher, keeper of my heart
This book of poems is for you, my Tsivia—the second-born, yet first in rhythm and color, in harmony and light. You were “Smiley Joe” before you could even speak, radiating joy with every grin, melting hearts before you knew you held such power.
You are the melody in our family’s song, the brushstroke that brightens the canvas, the laughter that lifts the room. Your music, your art, your deep wells of feeling—all of it echoes in these pages, in every word and pause and breath.
Of all my children, you are the one who knows the glory of love, the beauty of love, and the pain of heartache with the most depth, wisdom, and experience. You wear the tenderness of the world on your sleeve, and you carry it with grace.
You are the one who speaks to my poet’s soul—not just with your art and your music, but with your words, your glances, and your unforgettable smile.
You hold the keys to my heart, and you play them like a piano, with grace, with mischief, with aching beauty.
For your creativity, your empathy, and your boundless imagination—this book is yours.
And to finish, I want to dedicate one poem in particular to you—a lyric I wrote when I was your age. It was originally set to a groove, one I think you'd like. Maybe I’ll even try to record it for you someday. It goes like this:
"Hey,
don't have to value anything,
it's just what it is.
Don't have to convince myself."
That’s the groove. Just let it be what it is.
Abba