My Father's Forest

Over briars, twigs, and last fall's leaves
I step in prints three times my size.
The man I follow breaks my fall.
Each time I trip, he rescues me.
He holds back branches. He knows each one
Just before it comes. He studied them to protect himself,
But now he's protecting me.
Lifting my giggling, girly body across a widened creek,
He wants me here no matter the extra weight I bring.
I brushed my babydoll's hair only an hour before he brought me here.
The pinkness of my room still evaporates from my skin
Into the air of his forest of browns and greens.
He belongs here. He blends with the trunks of the trees.
But branches and squirrels won't embrace little girls.
His sons would have known this at their births,
Yet a daughter must be trained.
He does not mind to take the time.
He has no sons. Still I am his. So I learn.
Inquisitive children are strange to silent woods,
But a patient man is not.