My mother is a young girl again
standing at the edge of the field
near The Milepost
ready to leave.

Across the field
invisibly, we stand together,
together and each alone,
waiting for her to see us,
her son, her daughters,
her husband.

We raise our hands
to catch her sight
but she cannot see us,
she is too young for us yet,
she only sees the sky
and the green fields beneath,
the way young eyes do
and she looks at the road
leading away
towards us
and feels on her skin
the clear breath of sunlight.

She is made for the world
in her own way
she is life about too make life
she is youth about to blossom
out of a particular tragedy
into her own triumph.

She is herself
she is all of our past
and all of our future too
she is looking and waiting
as we wait,
for everything to come true.

—David Whyte


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