Hold on to the child in the growing -- someone is trying, unknowing, to strip the gold light from the grass, seal up the eye that sees whole, throw soot in the face of the sky, empty Pandora's box in the brain -- that cigar-box of foul things -- till the sky is full of false wings. Hold on to the boy in the man! the clean innocent eye, the small grubby hand, that hand grasping at sky; turning away from the trap, the snare and the gun, and the hurt; the small creature safe in his shirt. The boy and the man are one. Hold on to the girl in the woman! in blue-ribboned white shift, bringing her gift of a rain-clear eye, a stain-clear mouth; simple as a porridge bowl, nourishing as bread -- hold on to the mother with the child both within and inside her.