she wants her hands upon the tool
the danger that it holds compels
I hand it to her – something tells
her care will make me feel a fool
withholding danger – default rule
she wields the power with respect
protective instinct I inspect
perhaps I guard too much at times
denying risks are sometimes crimes
and so restraints I now let loose
lest growing up feels like a noose
and watchful as her spirit climbs
defying atrophy 
Very nice. Those eight syllables get me every time. Great harmony of form, rhythm and message.
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I’m quite smitten with the Decima these days.
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I had to look it up !
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wait, let me get my shocked face on. You’re the one who challenged me to write with more form and rhyme…
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But I am not that poetically erudite.
I just love poetry !
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