To my difficult children

To my difficult children

On my shelf, a row of boxes, tops tucked in—
Neat boxes for messy dealings.
Take this one:
I see you, muttering with your friends, side-glancing with your insolent eye.
Or this:
Arguing constantly, you think I’m weak and you can get away with it.
Or this:
It’s always someone else’s fault, usually mine.
Bottom line:
I don’t like what I think you think of me.

Funny how mind can shrink soul to such a size: 6 faces, 8 corners, 12 edges.

“Fear of man will prove to be a snare,” and caging you—so—
I catch myself.
See, my difficult children?
I open each box; you are free.



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