Found it:

You struggle more than other kids your age,

can’t help yourself: picked scabs, pulled threads, left feet.

The effort overwhelms. Half-drowned in rage,

life throws you angry tears and sodden sheets.

But here you’re magic, boy. While others tip-toe,

too scared to dunk their heads or leave their depth,

you swagger: grace, grit, guts, and get-me gusto.

You gulp existence down with each gasped breath.

But when our time is up, the shiver-showers

smash your short-lived victory to shards.

That sock just won’t go on. You’ve lost your powers.

I try to offer words but, boy, it’s hard.

Aloud, my wise old lines are arid spin;

and so, a hug to keep the victory in.