The sky steeling itself
against the willow
as the rain comes in
would be beautiful
if it were a painting
if I were not tired in it
if I were not worried in it
a willow’s colors shaking
into the river would be
brushwork if she were not
a riddle in it, if we were not
center rib in swallow
trying to see what took us in.
The experts in my ear
and milk a lightning strike
so each flash hurts, feeds
like fish seized in a beak
from that sashaying water.
My closet still full
of a shy girl’s teal, who am I
to hold off the whole future?
I am a mother, awake
with her. Before, I slept
and arose by any other name.
Sara Dilliplane, Reflecting Two (photograph)