return

When my child was
wee
I wondered if I
might
keep them whole.

By this I mean
I wondered if
I could wrap
around them.
Cloak their purity.
Save them from
pain.

But of course the
world found them.
And I did my best
to point at
hemispheres.
Narrate
and guide.

Narrate
and guide.

The giving of this
life, you see
is to arrive
at a place
where
your own
world
releases.

All of the pain
that did not
matter

melts.

Now I am a
child again.
Despite the
loosening of
my skin.

I let go,
anxiety.
Instead I
see
what drains
me.
I bid it go,
too.

I rest.

I am cloaked
in my joy and
the goodness
that has found
me.
In the wisdom
born of
pain.

But not the pain
that did not
matter.
Not the
misbelief.
Gone, too.

My cloak lays
at my feet.
I lift my skin
for
you to read
its words.

I am whole
but not wee.