Here I am, an old woman in the hooded doorway 
of a young woman’s life 
the twist of my hand like a spent willow 
from a distance a sapling unbent
the nature of the willow. 
I have lost objectivism. Why should I keep it? 
What good has my rooting in the ashes done
but smear the blackened ink against the window-pane 
like an early frost. My doorway is wide. 
I can see the barefoot children lapping at the wind
webbed fingers swiping wildly at the breeze
that twists and tickles them with their own ringlets. 

How clever the wind. 
How clever the children to chase the wind. 

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