I have done a series of photos like this for the following words:


Emerge

these wordless minutes, the cool outdoors
stir in me how it was, through the sweep

of blue I remember, the slight turn of
a hand, fingers, the calm youth

I could have been. I sit in this wooden
chair watching my children play

again some game about a princess.
Would they have called at my door?

I was never the lover, but the lost
I was the glass waiting to be filled

the doorway, ever open. The tinged afternoons,
the longing, the long hair. My mother

put it in pony tails and plaits, as I do now for them,
the careful crossing of hair, coated rubber bands on wrists

or brush handles. The firm caress of grooming.
The jewel a mother can then give the world.