I took a photograph of my mother in 1965,
developed it, and now can see her face,
aloof or attentive or something in between,
as I am both. Incomprehensible.
This poem will tell you what I feel
about a simple photograph. Another poem
will listen, now, to the murmuring wind, which carries
the catastrophic quiet of a nearby highway--
sometimes the sound of automobiles but then suddenly
no sound at all, not even the simulation
of a cricket's chirp. Although it has already stopped,
I will not ask that murmuring to stop again.