This is a poem called At Your Age, I Wore A Darkness.
And it's a running title so that the title goes right
into the first line.
At your age, I wore a darkness several sizes too big.
It hung on me like a mother's dress.
Even now as we speak, I am stitching a darkness
you'll need to unravel.
Unraveling another, you'll need to re-stitch.
What can I give you that you can keep?
Once you asked, does the sky stop?
It doesn't stop.
It just stops being one thing and starts being another.
Sometimes, we hold hands and tip our heads
way back so the blue fills our whole field of vision
so we feel like we're in it.
We don't stop.
We just stop being what we are and start being what?
Where?
What can I give you to carry there?
These shadows of leaves?
The lace and solace?
This soft hand-me-down darkness?
What can I give you that will be of use
in your next life, the one you will live without me.