She knows all of your tickle spots,
that you don’t like, despise cold, wet hands.
She wants to whistle, longs to snap,
is learning to cut-cut with big kid scissors, (awayyy from you, the order of fingers).
She has a leggy tendu & sweet, pointed turnout.
Because she is yours,
she whines for croissants,
says, “May I”,
& often goes shy
unless there is candy involved,
a sort of treat to speak-up for.
Remarking about the moon,
watercolors spreading in streaks of sunshine & murky-chartreuse
puddles of love.
She squeals for her daddy & welcomes bear hugs.
Because she is a character, a wise daughter, a love bug.
And then there is the coming out of our bathroom
with a great tail of toilet paper
that I didn’t see until she rolled over at tuckintime.
A peacock, goes my joke. Hee-hee.
There. That’s it.
Quite assuredly, she is your girl, methinks.