Degrees of Separation
Inside, light contrasts
with shadows outside my window
memories of other lives
in other times.
Somewhere a woman
calls herself my mother.
She is a close friend
first met on another day,
and I am one of the people
taken into her into life.
She says we’re all related
by some measure,
working, playing, loving,
dreaming in soliloquies.
To be born alone
means to die the same,
and survivors weather the change.
She says what counts
is what happens in between
beginnings and endings
philosophies shared
over herbal tea and soy nuts.
When others outside my window
begin their days, I ponder
degrees of separation
reflected in relations
I’ve come to know.
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