Hold on tight.
We were young,
and we took refuge
from storms around us
under tables as big as circus tents.
Reading those fantastical books
by the glow of torch light,
in warm mounds of blankets,
untouchable.
But we’ve grown
and the table, too small now,
offers itself no longer
as a fortress against the world.
For that safety
cannot be held forever.
It only survives when passed down
to those who fit under tables.