Sometimes my children are distant,
their voices sound like the departing honks
of geese flying to lands unknown,
and in their eyes I see clouds and skies
moving across oceans I have never travelled.
My hand then shimmers and I can see
my skin flaking, falling like snow
or manna to unknown uplifted faces
and my feet fall through their shoes,
enter the earth, and deeper still,
until I reside in the caverns of memory.
And I hear a thousand unlatched gates
closing, harsh as teeth gnashing, I smell
the sadness in a million flowers fading—
their petals falling like all the words
I meant to say and never got around to.