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A French connoisseuse, a blast, a hit,
Her hair twinkles in the night. 
She loudly likes parks and 
Rolling her feet in long halls
Of art museums. 

As she approaches the glass,
Her hands are only as small as 
Matisse’s ballerina’s shoe.
How blissfully she glances 
Around the room, with a daisy in her hair.

But then she gets bored,
And hungry and says she 
Wants to go to the park, near the sea.
She says she likes the view
Above the little white church. 

How perfectly envious 
Of her youthful innocence.
In each rendition of her being, she is better than I.
But I know by eighteen, she’ll 
Rebelliously blast Mazzy Star and recite Sonnet 155. 

I notice the perky newfoundness
Of her hair, short yet frizzly;
Her laugh, a little brighter than mine;
And her figure, destined to grow a breath taller.
Sometimes she plays guitar – something I never could. 

And yet, in every vision, every daydream I see,
No matter how far or how close 
Her image of myself might be,
One thing remains: 
My daughter always has the eyes of you, not me.

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