How do my children see so much
with gentle eyes that absorb
those things that I,
older and yet still so inexperienced,
know of so little.
How can they still smile when all those raw images,
projected into them without consent,
still race, pulsate
toy with their private thoughts.
How do they hear the vulnerable
voices of their childhood,
those that sometimes
whisper, often cry, those
anguished sounds of their troubled generation,
they can never drown out.
How do they feel when the caress of rude
friendship is given
by an unfamiliar hand,
proffered by strangers they have been
taught through weird proximity
I have let my children loose,
granted them the freedom of
their peers, attempted to
sever the apron strings of
Yet I will never slice right through.
Those tangled threads,
of which I may receive many
snide comments, or petty judgement,
form the strands of their protective networks,
weaving a web,
a cocoon to
keep them close,
in a chaotic ocean of uncertain future.