Lines written in memory of my late mother, who died of Alzheimer's.
I often see her, still.
True, she is beautiful.
I wonder about her,
in her youth.
She gazes out toward the river
life’s journey before her.
We share.
“It’ll rain soon.”
Her eyes, green grey.
The faraway-look, again.
I often see her, still.
In pictures. In movies.
They are less than her.
I do not see reflections
in her eyes.
She gazes out through windows -
mist shrouds the mountains.
She laughs, shaking her curls
that spiral.
Cascade.
I do not hear the breath
in her voice.
I sometimes see her, still.
In moments,
as if alone together.
The laugh, the voice, her eyes, the breath.
Reflections.
I wonder as she breathes through me
if, without her,
this moment
will let me live.
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