when you are an old woman,
        sitting in your hand carved,        
    beautifully curved, oaken rocker;         
   reading cummings, blake
   seamus heaney and shakespeare,
               you will look past the gathering dust     
   in the late afternoon light,
     your long, soft, white, silken hair
             gleaming within your shining aura,
                smile and think of me
             drifting upon the longago ether,
                 look past the sunstream.        
              with your right hand                        
              wave to a nearby tree,                        
              wave into the soft breeze,               
     the tree waves back             
                     a thousand leaves.
     for that one         
     blessed moment.  
                we will touch in the now.

[ to Alyssa ]