First giver.

First giver

   Enter the past with all its variable light
   and shade, a tunnel of ferns and evergreens,
   wet open meadows, fields that have known blight
   and broken bottles left from angry scenes.

   Mother, the shame is real that you confess.
   I know it too: failed love, the bite of lies
   returning after years. I know the mass
   of accusations and catastrophes.

   It's good we didn't know them starting out:
   you that a son would die, a husband leave,
   I that ambition would descend to doubt,
   my own past finger me awake with grief.

   I come to visit you, always surprised
   to find you reading books, highbrowed and low,
   attending meetings, keeping me apprised
   of how the town is faring. Moving slow

   but stubbornly present to your living sons,
   you laugh again, and that is gift enough.
   Honor the giver and the life that runs
   through days redeemed by acts of mortal love.