I am not the daughter of cranes and towers
swinging gibbets over muddy estuaries –
not the child who ever sailed
the garbage barges of paranoia.
I do not resemble the perfect rigor
of fame in marble,
or speak the language of black umbrellas.
I must explore the intricate history in a drop of water,
pan it for its worthless nuggets.
I cannot guide you round fountains and plazas,
up broad stone steps to great museums,
I am too distracted by the sound
of winding roots in the dark cool earth;
by butterflies dreaming of past lives.
I have to consider how fragile each day is –
each glass balloon; follow my mother
the ponderous moon, discover that difference
which splits a moment, one from the other.