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Poem

Mother comes out of you, father too,
and my son makes a cradle for me
with his elegant fingers.

Many backward facing faces
lead me to our tomorrow.
I to the undercroft and the unknowable,
you to these steps I have carved
into ancestral backbones,
to climb its hand-made ladders.

Yes, I see you now,
you are no longer disowned,
neither old nor young,
but clear of eye as an infant,
as ancient as the first molten day, 
for yes, you are a mirror.
you lead me out of yourself
recognizing your own.

Let me not die this night, and if it must be night
let it be your tomorrow night, a goodnight.
Soon we must pass into that looking-glass
where all is birthed, even death.
Everything I have known
will be recorded there, and all that I have forgot
will be remembered.

The race of man was my path
and God was its beginning and its end.
These lives we live
all came from the same seed.
Imagine that forest, and each tree and branch 
has a million names
this was the heaven we wrought
and so as it is above
so it is below, all to the light we go
the time taken but a breath,
an eon of dandelion seeds
planted upon the wind.

I will not call you: future, present or past,
If I so thought, or did so call
then there would be no womb for me
in the ever ripening cosmos 
of that which has yet to be.

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