The persons we are when we are young are probably buried somewhere within us when we’ve grown old.


Two Gates

I look through glass and see a young woman of twenty, 
washing dishes, and the window turns into a painting. 
She is myself thirty years ago.

She holds the same blue bowls and brass teapot 
I still own. I see her outline against lamplight; 
she knows only her side of the pane. The porch 
where I stand is empty.

Sunlight fades. I hear water run in the sink as she 
lowers her head, blind to the future. She does not imagine I exist.

I step forward for a better look and she dissolves 
into lumber and paint. A gate I passed through to the next life 
loses shape.

Once more I stand squared into the present, 
among maple trees and scissor-tailed birds, 
in a garden, almost a mother to that faint, 
distant woman.


© 2010 by Denise Low from her most recent book of poetry "Ghost of the New West", Woodley Memorial Press, 2010