Permanence in Change
By Ute Carson
Your index finger traces the faint red threads of broken capillaries
Down my thigh to my bony knee.
The tenderness in your fingertip
Is like a reassuring smile.
At sixty-three, my third grandson’s birth,
I did a headstand as a welcome.
Rounding down to a squat
I buried my head in my lap,
So dizzy was I from the effort and the joy.
When the morning glory opens its cup to the rising sun
A gentle closing at dusk is bound to follow.
And when I kiss your old, cracked lips, without the impatience of fire,
Like candle flames they still burn.
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