“She did not know I followed her
on her daily path – hunting,
always hunting for my face –
searching behind each strong Sequoia
unyielding to the times,
or pressed in moldering tomes
stored on Granddad’s shelves –
homilies, translations, concordances,
The Book of Common Prayer.
My steps matched hers in shadow;
when she turned to see
I felt her catch her breath,
listening to vibrations of my voice
break through cacophonies from pulpits.
I wept when I saw her
paging through an Atlas full of maps
following streets that lead nowhere.
From her backyard deck chair
she drew scent of me
in the beauty of bird song,
expanse of a meringue strewn sky.
The moon, with its unseen other side
One day she will open her briefcase
filled with poems she has written
and find I’ve been there all along.”