My Baby Daughter's Originality.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 23, 2018

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Submitted: May 23, 2018



Not her daintily bountiful feet- which were the source of life in its uninhibited fullest in the brilliantly sunlit household,

Not her incongruous mumbling in the middle of the night; as she restlessly tossed and turned from one periphery of the King poster bed to another,

Not her vividly carefree artistry- which splashed color and gregarious charm -
resuscitating fresh life into the solitarily deadened canvas,

Not her streak for emulating fashion- earnestly trying to be a trendsetter in her own
pristine self- as she swayed joyfully under the stars in the royally moonlit night,

Not her unpredictable temperament- which flared up at the tiniest of provocation to box everyone around her and then tranquilly quell as a silent stream to eventually merge with the sea,

Not her intriguing genius that captivated the attention of the brightest in the world- as she collaged thin bits of obsolete waywardness to harness new dimensions of creativity,

Not her mischievously uninhibited smile- that led me merrily dancing in the surreal
velvet of clouds - envisaging earth the most blessedly beautiful place to be,

Not her inherently philanthropic streak- her magnanimously diminutive persona which donated without inhibition- even whilst the richest of the richest sneered in contempt,

Not her gorgeously unruffled hair which marked her identity as one who loved to play and revel in the glory of enchanting music- occasionally running the hair comb through her dolls,

Not her sipper which she clung to with ecstatic fervor and unparalleled joy- whilst
suckling droplets of impeccable milk at dawn,

Not her victorious enthusiasm to relish existence to its exhilarating fullest- as her
sacredness was a treasured gift from Lord Almighty to do and disseminate good around her,

Not her pedaling her cycle with new found spurts of energy- as she raced past the
finishing line and immediately hugged me with invincible zeal to celebrate her
monumental feat,

Not her unfettered sighs of admiration as she browsed television- garlanding her
favorite actors and actresses with tiny claps in her perception,

Not her unshakeable flair for choosing the right match of food at the right time - as she was one poignant aficionado of pungent taste and spice- making her meal a vibrant delight,

Not her unbridled passion for adventure as she made new friends irrespective of caste; creed; religion or tribe- explored new and natural pathways lugged on my shoulders in a piggy-back,

Not her artistically molded fingers with which she shaped clay into the choicest shapes of intricacy- and admirably wrote in handsome calligraphy upon listless paper- in a tenacity to succeed,

Not her magnetic ability to grasp things that she liked- and then form a story of the
various characters she perceived- fearlessly reciting the same to adult audience in her
own unduplicated aura,

Not her rushing to me like wounded crop at the tiniest fall which happened quite
inadvertently with the floor- and then I compassionately circled her in my arms showing her the fecund fields outside,

But what bowled me over. Was my baby daughter's originality.

© Copyright 2019 Nikhil Parekh. All rights reserved.

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