Love ‘s most hap’ly fallen from
when fallen to another.
But some loves won’t be fallen from;
that love for sister-mother.
I did not mean to be like her
nor own or be owned by ‘er,
but now it ‘s her face I see
peer back out from my mirror.
Life ‘s not a cycle,
repeated birth and death,
tedious and dull,
till the sun gasp out of breath.
No, life pierces
back and forth in time,
here, now, there, then,
and what’s to come will both outshine.
"Not many fell," Will once wrote,
"and none of any name."
Who is he who gets to count the number fell
then pronounce upon their fame?
Not "them," out there,
they’ll surely fail to note.
But fame itself ‘s not greatness
and greatness ‘s the work ‘er life wrote.
Someone soon will carve on stone,
"Faithful Love, Beloved Mother."
And I’ll know, she’s welcomed on,
by that Sacred Other.
She must be safe,
if life ‘s sense to me.
She who made me safe, from every storm,
each heaving sea,
who made the winds calm
and waves subside,
when’er I turned alee.