Father and little girl face off in the front yard.
She is two clenched fists, he a pointing finger.
Dad sees, as God saw in Eden (“What is this
that you have done?”) that at times it’s worth
remembering, you did fashion them yourself.
His child is realizing the leeway of willfulness:
those who misbehave still get clothed and fed.
There will be the expected stories before bed.
Never a balance of power in war, only in love,
where, if weights on the see-saw are uneven,
the long-legged side compensates to equalize.
Daughter stomps off to her bedroom, father
returns to ground beef shrinking on the grille.
Mother’s inside the house, and their old dog
ruminates in the vicinity—oblivious, faithful,
patiently awaiting what falls from their table.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire's Lakes Region. His latest poetry book, "Wooden Nutmegs," is due out from Encircle Publications in Spring of 2020.
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