Little Dancer

A Poem by Ronda

This is about my daughter

Her tiny hands delicately
stroke my sleeping arm
so softly to awake me
before the sun and she
speaks so quietly
smelling of baby powder and
last nights shampoo
reminding me that I need
to brush my teeth
more then she
does.

The wisdom of
an ancient elder is
carried in those
chestnut eyes
of my little ballerina
dancing after butterflies
and playing with
feather boas
in the afternoon
sunshine.

As she runs barefooted
to me across the green grass
to hug my legs so tightly
with the determination
of letting me know
I am her one and only love
in her four years of life
I ask myself,
what would I do
without her?