My Daughter Is an Acorn
       

At nine years old she walks
with her best friend. Each
with her umbrella, each
with her markered sign, each
cautious of crossing over where
the two sides of the drawbridge
meet. My daughter leans into
her friend, her kitten-eared
head touching her friend's
braided one. Below us,
the waterfront spreads
with rain-soaked people; all
the bridges teem and span.
I keep my daughter in my
sights—she and her friend
two hearts in the crowd, two
hearts before me, two small
hearts in the acorn shells
of girlhood. I can almost see
the leaves unfolding
from their limbs. When
they tippy-toe to look
over the press of humans,
it's the forest I see—from
the understory of these girls'
bodies, these saplings, these
already mighty trees.

After the Women's March in Portland, Oregon on January 21, 2017.

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Copyright © 2022 Brittney Corrigan All rights reserved
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