ALMOST GROWN

She digs inside my make-up drawer

And claims she's almost grown.

Only three, this little one,

Heartaches of life as yet unknown.

 Upon her cheeks she puts on rouge

And paints her lips a shade of red,

She views herself and says she's pretty

And then she jumps up on my bed.

 I look at her and I wonder,

Was I ever, like her, so young?

Did, I too, say I am pretty,

As on the bed, like her, I flung?

 Her cheeks so fair and lips of pink,

She has, for now, no need of paint.

Into my world she wants to go,

She thinks it's something that it ain't.

 She smiles wide with ruby lips,

And claims, that now, she looks like me.

I smile at her and then I wonder;

What it is she views that I can't see.

 On her, I see, her eyes of blue,

On me, I see, my mousy brown.

I see her face so soft and smooth,

While my own, more like a clown.

 I close the drawer and wash her face,

Returning her to a child of three;

I kiss her cheek and head out to play,

With the dog and Heather and me.