I want a room of forest with an adjustable sun
and two spots in the clearing,
so you won’t have to practice on your own.
where one by one, as you’re ready,
I can bring you muzzled memories from my own trial.

now don’t expect miracles, daughter of mine,
I can’t and I won’t do your homework.
but I have a rhyme, a rhythm, a ring,
a reason to believe –
wrapped gifts for you now that you need them,
your everyday evidence made manifest.
and I will stay through hurt and heat while you learn,
until you know, even in the dark
how to warm and weave your fear back into faith.
and when your suns come up
I’ll be here, in your clear.

(at sixteen my dad said
kick it up to fifty and slam the brakes
so I can’t forget what it feels like
to squeal and skid and still stop.
one day you will know your heart like I know my station wagon –
but that will take time, and trust, and tinkering.
here are the keys.)