Each of my children
is a revelation. 

My story is their story.

To tell you where I’ve been
would be

a failure of will. 

It is tempting
to pluck down thunderheads

and sparrow songs

to fashion a convenient narrative.
But they—

they would know the fallacy
and the deception. 

Where I am going—

where they are going—

will plumb the mysteries

of a well-worn path.
The discoveries are a commonwealth.

The cadence of the present

is equally trite. 

But it can be taken up,
like a raiment,

like a shroud, 

and give shape
to the invisible.

Each of my children
is a revelation.
Their story is my story.