It was only a few short summers between my mother asking,
‘how I was’ and her asking ‘who I was’.
It was only the briefest of moments between telling a friend,
‘See you soon’ and bowing my head in a farewell.
It seems only days between being a child and looking after one,
Between laughing and shouting, ‘I’m old’ and being old.
Surely the moon has only passed a few times since saying
‘tomorrow, I’m going to..’ and ‘yesterday, I meant to….’
It has only been a few short, warm wind, summers since my mother asked me
how I was.
bobby stevenson 2017