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.