Your face is a thousand tin soldiers in a buttercup–

defiant,

pliant,

melting into my eyes,

challenging me to be smart for you,

whipping my integrity in shape,

demanding time be on my side so you won’t be alone.

Your father died so young.

The bud beginning to grow in you sat motionless,

unable to open.

My arms held my shell together

as you sat in the nest,

no worms being fed into your mouth.

You use his antics now.

I see you use them and they work for you.

His smile, wild again–

mischievous,

alert,

teasing,

hurt.

Soon you will throw rocks at your pillow,

embrace mortality,

revoke your dependence

on me.

And I, like my mother

will look for you in everything,

redefining my purpose,

filling myself with surrogate love

where we touched,

where we tore apart

when you have found

your own worms

to eat.