To a Boy Making a Paper Hat

He cuts a halo from today’s news.
His word-nest becomes a world
grown by buttresses of paper.

When I say he can bin the scraps,
he laughs and weaves the trash
into a garland.

Mum arrives and he leaves it
all behind: his cap
with its brimful of stories

of climate wars, wells drying.
A mizzling sleet descends.
I stand in front of our cathedral

wearing his hat
lit by stars long dead,
the darkness not yet overcoming.

Dana Littlepage Smith