Alessandra

This is a poem I wrote from the viewpoint of a father talking to his young daughter.

This is for the copper-haired young girl,

Who’s father picked her up, spun her around

And told her “One day, little one, you will be something.”

 

Something greater than the sparkle of mischief in your marble-black eyes,

Something greater than what came from my block, from my neighborhood,

From my mother’s house.

You, little one, will be a fortune in the form of a tiny hope,

You will succeed, and you don’t even know it

Oh, little one, as you reach out to me, your fingers spread wide

A look of joy and terror on your wide open face,

A place where sorrow hasn’t been sowed, disappointment never planted

You look upon the world, the expansive world with your sapling eyes

And see fresh, dark soil.

Soil just waiting, waiting to be turned and filled with a seed that will one day grow to become a fruit tree.

And you see your mother’s shoes, how they beckon to you

Hijita, come! You will be late for the party! You cannot go without shoes.

You step into them, your toes pushed to the front of the shoe, ankles a canyon away from the heels.

 

You will be the dancing little ballerina on the top of a carousel,

You will be the pink in the orange of the sunset,

The cherub in the story I read you before bed.

 

You, little one, you are the me that never came to be.