Daughters 2 through 4
are ours.

All beautiful: dark-haired
princesses.

But daughter 4 is my favourite.

She can tell the difference
between sedimentary, metamorphic
and igneous rocks when she’s 5
years old.

Lil’ miss Iota-Miette has her
dad’s laser sharp brown eyes
shot through with green cracks.

I gather her unruly long dark
hair in a scünci and bend to
double-knot her futbol cleats.

“Do you see that?” I say pointing
my scarred and twice broken left
index finger at the far goal.

She nods once never taking her
gaze away from the distant white
frame benetted from behind.

“Go get it,” I whisper. And she
flies like wind over the grass
and her gathered hair tries like
hell to keep up with her.

_{Olive Jonesy!!}

<;))){