You, dear mother,
are all women, all wonders

and of your form flow
rivers of grace

your gaze sets forests
ablaze with love

I

One quarter of a century has elapsed

the diurnal movement of a life-cycle

rotating on its own axis

turned inwards and away from

hung by a nail upon the casement

Twice or thrice they crisscross

Across the level crossing

And the nettles cling

Stubbornly to their sides

Spreading their displeasure

Upon the broken ridges

Of crumbling soil;

You draw your breath

yearning

a sadness infinite

in its contemplation;

The rocks stretch out their arms
To homeless pebbles in the sand
As the white waters leap
Downhill in headlong pursuit
Of happy, lapping hours.