What a long way my children have to go
To come from me. About them, all I know

Is that odd journey. Through a crowding wind
They bike to church. They queue for an exam.

They lurch on bumping airline aisles. They pace
Museums, tap the car to work, and race

To elevators. I have not been kind.
From a great distance I have called behind.

Children are weak and naked—so I hear—
Yet these exacting years they must endure

And trust that they will meet me in some green
Home neither they nor I have ever seen.

 
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