My daughter is little.
But she’s tall for her age.
Her hair, though, is soft; and so is her gaze.
Unless of course you upset her,
then she’ll sure let you know.
A furrowed brow that is just like her mother’s,
yet…also like mine, sometimes I wonder:
Where does she get it? From me? From her mom?
Where does she get the carelessness to hold the world in her palm?
Oh is she careless! But such a sweet child.
She’s loving, and gentle, and her temper is…well,
That’s something she probably gets from me,
But temper stems from passion, frustration, and a heart that is free.
You see, a heart that is free will love to create.
She’ll write things, and build stuff, and stay up late
Planning out things that to her mean the world.
She’ll stare up at the sky at night dreaming of the day that she is old enough herself to look back and say, “I hope my daughter reads this one day.”
I hope she doesn’t get there too fast though.
I wouldn’t wish her to skip growing up, no,
I’ll keep her young just as long as I can.
Dad will always be there to chase away the boogie man.
We’ll create things together—music I hope.
I’ll teach her to swing into the Elk River off of that old rope.
And if she’s shy, I’ll give her a nudge.
But I won’t push too hard, so she can’t hold a grudge.
She will laugh and be loved, by all the world over.
She’ll find solitude and peace in a single four leaf clover.
That clover she’ll take and she’ll put in a book—
That will come from her mother as well—
That she’ll read quietly in her nook.
Knowledge will guide her, and be her heart’s song.
After all, it’s kept me going this long.
Yes, my daughter is little,
Not even quite two,
But one day she’ll be grown,
And I know that day will come all too soon.
A Poet’s Qualm 