Her little hands grew big

As did her little feet

But her big big eyes

Her big expressive eyes

Remained.

And it saddened me

That the birdies

Would be lucky enough

To be looked at with

The light of laughter.

And the flowers

Were worthy of the wonder

Normally withheld within her watch.

Should the ocean,

So rough and dangerous

And with so little regard to her

Be regarded by her

As a God?

Why should the trees

Hold such possibilities

In her big perfect eyes?

And I admit, that I was jealous

Of the way she looked upon

Her mother’s face

With faultless fondness.

And I regret

that I have done this to myself.

Only seeing these beautiful looks

Of wondrous amazement

Of admiration for the world

Through photographs.

And praying

That one day

She would admire me.

When she was young

I was jealous

Of the birds and the flowers and the trees and the ocean and her mother.

They all had her

A special small part of her

That she gave to them.

And for years

Through the glass

And over the telephone

She gave me nothing.

But now that

Her little hands have grown big

And so have her little feet

Something has changed.

She sees me.

And not with the idolatry of the ocean

Or the laughter of the birds.

Not with the wonder of the flowers

Or the possibilities of the trees.

And it would be nice,

To be seen with the fondness

With which she sees her mother.

But the hatred with which she dresses me

Through glass and the phone

With her big expressive eyes

Is more valuable.

For it is mine

And mine alone.

Her resentment hurts

But her apathy

Her blinding indifference towards me

Cut deeper than the daggers

Her big expressive eyes

Throw at me

Through glass

and over the telephone.

I will gladly catch these daggers

And lock them away

Within my sinful heart.

And it pains me to do so

But this pain is progress.