I’d like to sit in the room

there with that pajamaed boy upon his knees,

crumpled blankets and bed beneath him,

staring out windows into the dark,

to sit silently with him

wherever he may be.

Not to pluck the darkness from his sight or sorrows,

his fears or confusion,

for he needs the darknesses,

they feed him as much as light.

And Heaven knows he must gather experience

and knowing

and skill continually grappling with both.

Both, ever both.

Here, it is an All sort of existence.

May it be that he (and you, and I and they)

feels what it is like

to be he, only he, and to sense

that that being is more

than even a growing imagination

can conjure

in vast nights silently sitting, and

finally with darkness

not alone.