A mother and a child, I think, then reconsider.
It's a matter of perspective, of the angle and the distance,
whether one seems taller than the other, whether
one seems to take the lead as they tiptoe into
all that settles as the tide recedes.
It's where the light is coming from that elongates
their reflection. It's the direction and strength of the wind
that determines whether their mirror image
wobbles or stands still. There's little at this distance to differentiate them.
The slightest alteration yields regret,
a feeling that something should have happened differently.
I visit with my mother, who used to be
the taller one. Now time is what differentiates
who's the child from who's the mother. Each morning of my visit,
I sweep up Rose of Sharon blossoms, fallen furled
as if ready to begin again at their beginning.
As if ready to begin again at my beginning
I sweep up Rose of Sharon blossoms, fallen furled,
each morning of my visit—or as if she's the child and I'm the mother,
the taller one now. Time is what differentiates
this visit with my mother from what used to be,
a feeling that something could have happened differently.
Regret yields to the slightest alteration,
wobbles, then stands still. There's little at this distance to differentiate us
or determine whether our mirror image
is a true reflection. It's the direction and strength of the wind,
it's where the light is coming from, that elongates
all that settles as the tide recedes.
Who seems to take the lead as we tiptoe into
weather? One seems taller than the other, whether
it's a matter of perspective, of the angle or the distance.
A child and a mother, I think, then reconsider.
