They always said
How much the little girl
Was like her daddy--
The way she stood
Walked 
Movements
Gestures--
Cute when she was small

But the older she gets
The more she takes on
More serious aspects--
My strengths
My weaknesses.

Proud to see her
Strong personality—
Flashbacks to my youth.
Strong-willed
Free in spirit
As a young deer
Kinking up its hind legs
In defiance of constriction.

A free spirit sees
No need for the fences
We build to contain it
To control their so-called
Baser instincts.

In her my strengths are
Magnified-- but oh
So are my weaknesses--
My weaknesses magnified!

Looking at this
Living mirror of myself
Magnifies
Intensifies
A normal father/daughter
Relationship.

I think I see clearly because
I think I know myself so well--
I chastise myself
I condemn my weaknesses
The mistakes I made in my youth.

I look down at me
She looks up to me.

They say she is
So much like her daddy
But she is much more--
Part mama
Part gran
Part grandma
A tapestry of traits
All formed in her
Along with what her social
Environments have
Sown and reaped.

The teenager often sees the
Outward beauty of a
Model or movie star--
Someone is always
Better looking
Someone else always
Has more of something.

I try so hard to make her see
That this is so common
A feeling--
She is above all this
She is not run of the mill.

Time has proved
That I see more
Than what meets the eye
But this knowing
Holds possible dangers--
I can see ahead to
Warn her of trouble
But there are troubles
That she must endure.
Over-protection--
Every parent knows this pain.

I do not want to fail her
But distance grows
Between us when
I monitor her progress
When I push and ****
To make her less like daddy.
She shouldn’t be like me--
I have too many regrets.

I sometimes hear sounds that
I cannot distinguish--
I hear fluttering sounds
That I think are birds
Flying out of the trees
But in reality it is the wind
Blowing high
Through the pines.

I see shadows of strangers
Seeking mischief
Shining bright
Lights at the family tent
In the cold
Half-dream-state
Of the cold night--
But reality says it is
The distortion of the campfire
Through the fabric of the tent.

I cannot always distinguish
Certain sights and sounds
At certain times
But time reveals what
They truly are.

But to bite the tongue
When I wish to scold
Out of season--
To stop focusing on our
Likenesses to the point
Where I cannot differentiate
Between my feelings
Or what I used to feel
And the individual soul
That my daughter is.

They always say how
much she is like her daddy--
Maybe daddy needs to change.