Expecting Blooms

My daughter is not my salvation
    nor my redemption. She is
    a house plant with us aspiring
    she become an acacia. Firstly,
    because of its majesty. Second,
    because both are nourished by
    lovely aunties and uncles
    in beloved barangays. Third,
    it’s all over the world, which,
    maybe, someday, she’ll consent
    to be. And, most of all, because
        streets are named after it.

Yet daughters do not pass on names.
    Their posterity bear those of
    sons. In them is the stream of
    memories from their capillaries
    to their arteries. The blood runs
    yet what is there in speculating
        the line’s forever?

    For we who are Job, subject to God
    and fate, there is forward.
    Thereafter, the faith in
    us doing this. That she,
        smelling of dawn’s
        blossoms, possesses a
            cocooned puissance
            where will manifests.

Always praying she hopes,
trusts, and, I say with
a quantum of dread,
loves, with discernment,
of course.

Just as many wish
for theirs as I ask
they keep doing.