Here my children are making spaces:
blanket forts, jokes, eye rolls, faces--
spaces for just them
Their sweetness swirling from cyan
to scarlet to sonnets nibbling,
unfurling in my heart
The gates that once swung between us
when they were young now lie
translated, behind us.
It seems yesterdays are gold, are spent
and tomorrows are vague presents
here at summer's end
May my empty be their success, I pray:
Take the clay of my blood and milk,
my loves; blaze away.