The boy as an older man to his mother:

Into this then, this space
of sacred rocks placed in balance,
the sunlight to screen thoughts.

I remember when we were young
you held my hand, mother, as I
now hold yours, your eyes then, clear
looking forward to a time of me
never to become a reality,

those rocks that hover
huddle against wind and word
create shelter in thought and deed.

This man I am, distant now
from that time of holding hands,
my children adults now
who plan that hand-holding in their futures
and whatever they will see
standing there with their’s
will match
and will not

the vision you had
and that now sometimes I glimpse echoes of
as you sit, frail, barely present
in this second between dreams.