The same woman

When I am 91
Waking up in my bed on wide white sheets
Vanishing into the open question 
At the end of my life
I am still a young woman

No baby suckles my breasts 
Anymore
No tiny hand in mine 
Brings me to the window
To hear the birds

Yet I am the same woman 
Who wrote this poem
Long ago
From the foundering depths of 
New motherhood

I am also the baby girl
At the beginning of my life
Held by my mother 
To her breast 
Giving me her milk

Yearning 
For the work of her career
From the depths of motherhood to be 
Doing important things 
Her real life

This I absorbed this into my cells 
Keeping me 
For a long time 
From the things I loved
Especially myself

As I nursed my baby this morning
On the wide white sheets
I prayed 
For love to guide me

Thanking God for the grace 
To leave aside my work 
For a while
For the important things
My real life

Even as she sings the alphabet 
In the next room
And stammers along the floor 
To find me

My baby is the grown woman
Who will bring to me at 91
Her motherhood, her children 
Her children's children
And I will remember myself