August 17, 2020

Storytime, Magic

Read me stories, or just tell me some,
from when you were my age and the world
was wider, more nebulous, and how you
picked your way through, or it picked you.

We could cuddle in the rocker or build
a pillow fortress on the floor, a sort of
makeshift stronghold, or softhold as it
were, the making of which makes me

believe – in me, yes, and in making more
generally, and in the me who is made by
making, especially the making of time,
fantastic a notion as that is. I am here

to make that sort of magic, with you.