Changes Come Slowly
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She asks, Where did I go wrong? Yet I know this artist’s doubt
is all in her head when I watch
She-who-delights-in-rituals-of-identity
rest on trillium boulders inside
these woodland hills. She is amending
the arc of the twenty-first century,
doing what she can, painting blue starlight
spilling from Cassiopeia’s cape when it rains
and my mind begins to wander
for this is where it often goes.
She is offering me new rites of mourning
to finally realize my departed mother’s
thoughts; they will glide like fireflies,
flashing ever closer to the ground.
What she means to say is, Ask me anything.
Then wait—wait for her word. Changes
come slowly in seasons of moments.
