We try to build them up, to make them strong,
give gifts of tiny truths, a whispered song
against the dark, a phrase not to forget;
it’s not so much to guard them with and yet
it’s all we have. The sweat and tears and years
we’ve poured with open hands must morph to fears
we could not give enough. The world will breach
each barrier we erect; all we can teach
is not enough. All work of human hands
is flawed and broken from the start; the sands
will grind away, bring lovers cold, with hearts
unmoved, untouched. My book, my child, bear parts
of me and though I know their paths unwind
beyond my hands, I ask the world, be kind.
*****