My child, my son, my daughter deaf to none, have patience, have

poise, for the season's far from done, and time is on your side.

The world is your dream; a white burning sun, burning off the

fog, burning like the dawn, joyous and mad and wishful and

windstormed with despair, and all the best confusions of a

child growing wise.  Awaiting in your worries, in the shadows

of tomorrow, is a peril full of doubt, of fear, endless frantic fear,

unknowing and hungry for solutions, to questions that could

flood the ground from sight.  Time will answer some, but ignore

the greatest ones - but this is the way things are, and will be, and

have been for us all.  You, our heir, our heart, our limb in the rage

of bloom, ill with pride and hopes, dazed by so much choice and by

options and by the nurtured mind you wield, you have a bright blue sky

before you, rife with unclosed windows - to peer through, to walk through, to shut and shatter if you choose.  And soon, when you've known a bit of bedlam, of discord and illusion, and because you will grow headstrong and fraught again and again before the nightstars shine, you might hark the words of Mothers, of Fathers, of all the fools hereof, and who flood you with their love - who have fought and drowned and come back again, who have been vexed by this wide open range between righteousness and wrong, and who have cried the pains of time and the loss of those they love, and who have hungered and who have starved and who have savored, and who now circle around their settled homes, paging through their memoirs, their fateful spells of yesteryear, and now watching you with refuge and reverence and every hope they have - and who call upon you to see through their late delusion, through their slackened course, to their clouded savvy that carried them to old age, for they wish you only good, and can swear to you that life is not measured in years, but how it's cast in the reflections of your venture, who promise to you that the dire things do pass, and that they are seemingly, and that they are slight, and that they are so very small.  But they would also plead to you to hold tight to your fine fears, keep anxious and keep awed about such things, for they are the things that prove your heart beats pure, and that you care about this and that and that you deeply love life, and, as things go, love will follow you throughout it all.










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