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.