The week after you died, Mom, you were in my checkout line, little old lady who met my stare with the fear, the yearning of a mortal chosen by a god, feeling herself change painfully cell by cell into a shadow, a laurel, you, a constellation.
Now that it's over between me and Nature I like her better. We've given up senseless fear, useless hope. She's got herself together.
Just hanging on, but trim, surprising, capable, she shows, toward evening, some of the old flashes. If her solitudes, amazed and kind, can't be mine, or her gaze of waters stirs others, no harm done. She's on her own.
And don't misunderstand: it's not yearning, but the old courtesy of life for life, when sometimes, often, out for nothing, I stop for a minute to hear our songs high up, crossing.