This shadow, multiplying mother after mother, is where my daughter labours in her own time her face a pale distance from mine. She rocks, gripping my hand tight so the rings hurt,
On the bright thread of time I am nobody’s child On the bright thread of time I am not your mother But some kind of kindred spirit With the power of a larger body
In the morning she woke, body a sun-baked stone only her lips alive. Light streamed through the window touching her body, dissolving its’ white dust to gold
“A beautiful world,” Joyce murmured, “but going on too long.” Every branch on every tree had a neat layer of snow and the sun shone from a hard, blue sky.