It is one thing to be woven as a child,
to be a beautiful bead on the long braid of
ancestors who smile benevolently,
through the centuries
on my perfect self—
sitting quietly in an airy room of possibility,
windows open to the soft breeze of potential.
It is quite another thing to be plaited
with that brisk twisting motion
perfected by generations of mothers
laboring intently over squirming daughters.
Now I am one small tuck of a generation,
turning precisely in time to say goodbye
to perfect grands and greats
walking serenely across an airy plain.
They also turn,
moving into a future I will never see,
which carries yet some
broken, golden strand of me.