With all the different lives you lead
It’s so difficult to get hold of you.
That’s what parents do, I suppose;
Chase youth until they run out of breath
And grow old.
Keeping track of the words I’ve put together
For you is almost impossible. They’re littered
Across two handfuls or more of machines
And scattered pieces of paper and billions
Of cells in this unordered mind of mine.
What we pass on to our children is the best of us.
Parents wind back time until they’re children
Again, and undivide from what created them.
You are not the child you were,
Because you’re a child no more.
I love the way you are becoming original.
The order of things changes. I read
What you write and I learn new things there.
It was the other way around, once.
I’m glad it no longer is because
I was never any good at teaching.
Time is just an artificial measurement of the vanishing of the sun.
Think of happiness in the darkest of times
And know it will return in your life-time.
Grab each moment you can
And make it your own.
R, 29th March 2017, 22:25
For Kara's 18th birthday