To My Mother


       Three days of rain
       and the river
       has taken to its banks,
       clamoring along in
       noisy desperation.
       The twigs and sparrows
       of a week past
       are now limbs and geese,
       riding the convex crescent
       of the play of water on water,
       yesterday and today.
       I've seen this river before,
       stepped into it too --
       once, twice,
       as many times as it takes
       to know I remain unchanged
       while the river
       is ever on the move.
       Oh, the mirror knows my age,
       and the golden hairs on my arm
       have long since strayed to grey.
       But let me show you
       this little raft,
       of ice cream sticks,
       how the pieces interlace,
       and how it takes to the
       current and the cataracts
       as I nudge it on its way.
       Tell me you don't see
       in the movement of my hand
       just a glimmer of your boy
       in this looking glass cascade.



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