Mother

Ninety, fragile
in so many ways.
Yet girlish, naive
and particular.
Particularity of place,
of time,
of ways.
Filling it with
dreams made real; all 
to be washed away
when night rises.


Center
Everything leaps out 
from the center.
Tiny leaps of a centipede.
Great leaps of a gazelle.
The steady leaps of you and I,
intent upon finding ourselves
knowing that the leap into Being
is the same Being as
before the leap. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s