Pre-dawn, post-party, the house still resting,
witness to soft shades of graphite,
the ceiling stealing light from the hall.
In this state, what’s on my mind
swells from dreaminess and grips me:
children who meet me,
inch for inch,
who talk of their own possibilities.
It pivots me towards a future
when they are gone,
orients me towards the clock.
Pinned by the shoulders,
I can’t spring into a canopy
of distractions: fabrics, lipstick, wine.
The reckless courage of spring,
the unstinting faith in sunrise
On the ceiling, headstone grey,
shadows search themselves for an epitaph.
The fear I’ve cupped for my children now
grapples with the finality of me.
In the shadows, I think of her,
her terror of midnight, silks turned to tatters,
the fragile slippers on her feet,
her transient dream of dancing on glass.