Cleanly as mountain snow

Now that a crone
peers from my mirror
I dream
of the babies--
the sons  the girls--
I never birthed.
I hold
their tiny warmth
in my arms
tenderness flows
like the milk
I never gave.

I wake
to empty rooms
as I would if
my boys
my adventurous daughters
were grown and gone--
one living with the love
who will break his heart,
one pulling her belt
against wealth's hunger,
one who disappeared
so I don't know
if he's sleeping on silk
or a sidewalk.

My womb
casts no shadow
on the future.
I will die cleanly
as mountain snow
melts in spring.
Only ghosts
of the unborn
will mourn.

(c)Serena Fusek          2009