What a mess! In Mary Cassatt’s The Boating Party,
the woman’s holding a baby while the rower’s
rowing, even though the sail is filled! And he’s
facing the wrong way! And waves are washing
all directions! Nothing’s one-sided: for example,
two robins out there are acting exactly like robins,
and chickadees keep scrupulously tapping at
the feeder. Nothing wrong or right: my mother still
alive, and not, the way it is when you can’t help it,
which is always. The chipmunk she calls “Chippie”
dashes out, then stows himself under the porch.
Years conflate into a wonder-smashing glory.
Nothing to be done. No matter what, you’ve got
stones, buds, shrubs, hills, tumbling over each other,
sun on this side, naming the shade, each banking
against the sky, coming in for a landing. And
my mother is still in the rowboat, how she loved
to be rowed! I, at least, the bearer of that comfort,
though such recollections can scarcely be endured,
they are so laced with terror and awe, so each
and neither. Yet she is dragging her hand
in the sparkles, joy, for once, at her command.