For My Daughters
*This the second in a two-part series on mothers and mothering.
While most of my writing lately is prose, I also enjoy writing poetry. I wrote a poem for each of my two daughters in the past year. Quinn is fourteen, soon to be fifteen, and Evangeline is eleven, soon to be twelve. I share the poems here in honor of Mother’s Day.
My girls share some interests such as reading, visual art, dance, a love of music and history, animals, and nature, and are both kind and caring people. In other respects, they are vastly different from each other. One of the things I love most about being a parent is watching the slow unfurling of our daughters’ selves, the gradual discovery of who they are as individuals. It is a humbling privilege to watch them reveal who they truly are and to embrace them for their own, singular beauties and idiosyncrasies.
Still Ourselves
~for Evangeline (age 11)
Once you were three.
You toppled my leather satchel,
graduate papers vital to me,
confetti to you.
You looked up, dimpled.
Satisfied.
What could I do
but extend arms and scoop
soft flesh, duckling fuzz --
your wiggling form,
and laugh and exclaim and laugh?
Now you are eleven.
You level warning looks
in a crowd when I --
without intention --
share too much
your guarded self,
overturn your shell
and expose what you
meant only me
to see.
The child that remains.
I concede.
Apologize.
Later, alone, we snuggle.
Still ourselves.
Soon you will be nineteen.
Who can say
what you will do
what exertion of will
what curiosities, indulge,
truths conceal
I will enter the room,
throat caught
at the true sight of you,
your autonomy.
You will surprise me.
Perhaps a call,
a visit.
There will be
new papers to clean up.
New expressions to register
and to respect.
Yet -- and here I hope --
Ever, still ourselves.
~June 2021
Sprite Child
~for Quinn (age fourteen)
Elf-like from first
I saw you
Glittering bead eyes,
mischief fired.
You never were a sleeper.
You always were you
Quick but not to conform
You cared not a jot that
I wanted you to close your eyes
Needed you to
You had other ideas.
Ire raised as a three year old
Your fury was breath-taking
But you were also
resident comedian
whip-sharp
and wise.
I see now
always I was one step,
three steps behind you
there you’d go
through the wood
hair wisping wild
turning split-second --
flash of eyes
curl of lip
tease of trickster --
to glance at me
before darting away
a dash, a glimpse
Wait!
A giggle.
I would trail
with laughter.
And try my best
to keep up.
~September 2021
Do you have a poem in you this week? When could you find a bit of time to sit down and try your hand at crafting a poem? It is never wasted time.
Who, in your life, has given you the honor of revealing their truest selves to you? Could you communicate to them your enjoyment of knowing them deeply as people? How might you do that?
