Sonnet for Sonya

Ah, little girl, hair swinging in the breeze,
you’re visiting the girl, your friend from school,
who lives with her mom and me, among these trees.
My son is visiting also. Life seems cruel
to me sometimes, wound tangled on its spool.
Three twelve-year-olds, and you have met my son,
and he’s met you; you think each other cool.
Giggling together, shifting one-on-one,
you all play hard, till darting eyes are done,
tokens of flirts and friendship on the floor,
too scattered and tired for any further fun.
I must not read my young son’s private letter:
but someone wants to be your friend forever.