My daughter is 16 and thinks that she
is a grown lady, the sassiness in her steps,
the stares and smirks in the bathroom
mirror, rosy fleshed cheeks chipper and
glowing bright, as she dances and spins
around like the wheels of a moving vehicle.
I can see the upbeat swag in her hips,
the iridescent charm in her flow, how her
caramel brown skin glistens like the sun,
like a sparkling diamond in the moonlight.
And as she twirls her lustrous curly hair,
I can hear her soft voice singing Brandy’s
song, Sittin On Top Of The World, pure
sweet harmonies rising in the air towards
a sea of uncharted dreams.  There’s the
dazzle in her bright brown eyes, serene
gleam and glossy red lipstick she tries
to hide from me.  Her mind is ahead
of its time like the tremendous trees
that stands in the background filled
with so much knowledge and depth.  
But a part of me worries that she is
becoming a young woman too soon.  
Some days when I’m home polishing
the furniture and she walks in through
the screen door, I can see the radiance
and flirtatious grin in her frame,
those various boys that got her losing
her mind like a kingdom falling apart
piece by piece.  And when I try to talk to
her, there’s the smart remarks that rises
out of her mouth.  Who do she think I am?
She must not know that she is not too old to
get an old-fashioned whipping.  Back in the
days when I was a teenager and we talked
back to our parents, that was grounds for
an absolute beat-down, the kind that had
a stinging sensation of blazing rhythms,
a swollen space of broken waves.
Still, I understood the meaning behind
those times, the many days when my parents
showed me tough love in hopes that I would
bloom into a blossoming woman.  And now
as I stare at my baby girl, I can only hope that
she too will blossom into a beautiful flower.