I will wait to write about Mother.
Is this me? she asks.
Am I this old woman you speak of here?
This apple tree must be me,
giving my fruit to my children.
I will wait to write about Mother.
And here you gave me a thick coat.
I have nothing to hide, nothing!
Am I this old woman you speak of?
Am I this deer beside the road, the pearl
you dropped from a bridge over the sea?
I will wait to write about Mother.
I am this old woman I speak of here.