She sings softly to herself,
doesn’t notice me watching
as she plays with some trinket,
or grabs handfuls of grass.
She’s like me, reflected—
through her parents’ love.
Her world is form and color,
meaning not yet discovered.
Lustrous lightly looping locks,
lively long and lifting lashes.
Holding my legs,
head tilted, she grins.
She needs the walls
a father’s love provides,
yet pushes back.
In a child’s way she defies,
testing the firm ground she stands on.
I know she needs me—
to correct and to caress,
gently, forgetting myself.
She’s mine, for now.