My Independent Little Girl
She wakes before the sun, a pocket‑sized sunrise,
her socks mismatched like questions she’s already answered.
A notebook pressed to her chest, the world already
written in crayon margins—bold, un‑edited, un‑afraid.
She ties her own laces, a knot of stubborn resolve,
pulls the curtains aside, lets the streetlight spill
onto the kitchen table, where she sets her own schedule:
homework after breakfast, adventure before dinner.
The world tells her “be careful,”
she replies with a grin and a compass made of stickers—
north is wherever she decides to point her toe,
south is the hum of the fridge, a lullaby of independence.
She climbs the oak in the backyard, not to reach the clouds,
but to prove that height is measured in breath, not in branches.
From that perch she watches the ants march in a line,
and wonders why they follow rules she refuses to write.
When the rain taps the window, she doesn’t hide,
she catches the drops on her palm, lets them slip through—
each one a tiny rebellion against the notion that she must stay still.
She sings the chorus of a song she invented on the spot,
and the house answers back with the echo of her own confidence.
At night, when the moon hangs like a silver promise,
she tucks herself in, slides a note under the pillow:
“Tomorrow I will build a bridge from the hallway to the garden,
so I can walk straight into my dreams without tripping over fear.”
My independent little girl,
you are the echo of tomorrow in today’s hallway,
the soft thunder that shakes the quiet,
the fierce whisper that says “I can.”
And I, the witness of your first steps,
learn to let go, to watch you spin the world on your fingertip—
knowing that the most beautiful revolutions begin
with a child who decides, on her own, to turn.
-
Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: February 20th, 2026 06:26
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem was authored by my esteemed mother, Thomasina, during my childhood. It was displayed in a picture frame on my bedside table, serving as a nightly reminder of her profound love for me.❤️
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange, Mutley Ravishes
Offline)
Comments6
A poem of stubbornness turned resolution of childhood rebellion becoming independence. It reveals a childlike view growing to an adult vision. Innocence becoming wisdom. With wonderful metaphoric images it paints the picture in color. Very nice and a fave
Thank you, Soren. I appreciate you stopping by to read my poem, but most of all, I appreciate your feedback, my friend.
You are always most welcome my friend
Trees to conquer, and the world was your oyster.
Sort of feel sorry for kids today, I feel they're missing out on lives adventures now.
The computer has stolen them it seems.
Thank you, Paul. I appreciate you stopping by to read my poem, but most of all, I appreciate your feedback, my friend. yes l had an amazing childhood.
A fine write there.
Thank you, Orchidee. I appreciate you stopping by to read my poem, but most of all, I appreciate your feedback, my friend.
My friend, this captures the sacred ache of watching independence bloom. The parent voice isn’t possessive…it’s reverent. That letting-go energy feels real. I was fine at the beginning. By the end I’m staring at the wall reconsidering my entire emotional stability. How powerful to know it was your mom's poem about you. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you, Tristan. I appreciate you stopping by to read my poem, but most of all, I appreciate your feedback, my friend. yes my mom was amazing.
A beautiful write by your Mom, , Friendship. I used to listen to an album called "Misplaced Childhood" when I was a teenager.
She carries the sunrise in her socks and a rebellion in her breath—raw, tender, unstoppable.
Watching her spin the world, you feel the weight and wonder of letting go without breaking.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.