To My Middle Daughter

My middle child,
light of my eyes and ache of my stomach,
sunshine dancing across water,
my never-still, always running one--

what is this that blows up in you
like hurricane wrenching drainpipe from house,
tipping over trellises, ripping trained vines loose?

What is the name for it,
the whitecapped waves nobody can ride?

How can we bring it close
and with soothing hands, tame it?

Can you tell me, daughter?
Try to articulate, try hard
to wrap syllables around this force
that makes you snap like a sail.

Don't look at me that way, young
woman.  Don't let the darkness of this storm
shade your eyes from me.

Can't you see
I am standing here,
shoulders braced,
every muscle tensed--

Don't you know
I'll walk more storms than this with you?