It’s hard to write a poem
when my kids have conversations
with me about how dire the world is.
What they’ve overheard on the news.
What other kids have said.
What they have witnessed.
“It wasn’t like this when I was younger,”
my eleven-year-old daughter says.
“But it was,” I say,
“You just didn’t notice yet.”
“Makes sense,” my thirteen-year-old son adds,
“We’re more self-aware these days.”

It’s hard to write a poem
when I keep replaying these talks
and all the things I wish I’d said,
all the things I wish I could promise,
all the things I feel the need to apologize for,
but I can only hope
they feel how loved they are,
I can only hope
they choose kindness in their words
and actions,that their intentions are good
and they learn from their mistakes
instead of growing bitter
despite what others may show them.
I can only hope
they know it isn’t their responsibility to fix
every bad thing, but to do all the good
they can where they can when they can.

It’s hard to write a poem
when my head is heavy with
worries of my children,
but maybe a poem is what they need most.