Generations

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.