She speaks purely of her own thoughts and nothing more,
Her confidence shows like that of a lion—though she is small.
I see myself in her more than she knows,
From her eyes to her ears, and even her nose.
But she is not mine, you see-
And I see her mother, with whom I am kin.
Her little hand reaches as if it knows mine by name;
She rests on my hip bereft of disdain.
Such charisma that I long for in her- in her locked away,
Our roles reverse, as she teaches me along the way.
Little does she know, you might say, how sweet
But nay say I, her knowledge is complete.
Her mind drifts off in endless wonder
While eyes convene to silent slumber.
I watch and think, “Oh, to be young!”
Her future is a song, yet to be sung.