By Jean Gerard

It takes a dream to stir the heart
of woman’s love and longing.
It takes the night to wake her shades
of dulling memory and regret.
Next come the words to shine
a light on terms, mixed assignations:
mother daughter sister crone
goldilocks grandmother wolf
before the beautiful parade
files past, attenuated on life’s tilted
runways, dropping lace perfume
petals buttons snaps and ruffles
twirling back on youth and games
and dances and the wild rush
of marriage in-laws births
feeding bathing nurturing.
Then daughter’s teen-age bloom,
her eager risk and asking if and when
and how, and what am I? Are you?
Mixed signals, click of stilted heels
lipstick smiles and painted nails
and stern denial of white hair
and that sad insidious awareness
of a narrowing tenuous future
as many moons fill and lapse
and the woman gives up breath
and passes into the woods alone,
yet fit to burst with loving.