My Daughter


she is an old soul
in comfy pants and tennis shoes

with a belly laugh
that cracks my illusion she
is too serious too soon

faithful to homework and deadlines
working among forgotten dishes
and clothes strewn on the floor

more mother than sister
until he pushes her buttons…
or they conspire to push ours

baking scones and cookies
while listening to ABBA

tries to convince her grandma
that coloring her hair isn’t necessary
yet transformed one Sunday morning
with a swipe of my mascara

snuggles next to me on the couch
each morning
then goes to make her own plans for school
and weekends and projects

considering Culver,
leaving us so young
with orange monkey still slung
around her neck

yet not yet

ever present
yet almost gone