Before Two Portraits of My Mother
I love the beautiful young girl of this
portrait, my mother, painted years ago
when her forehead was white, and there was no
shadow in the dazzling Venetian glass
of her gaze. But this other likeness shows
the deep trenches across her forehead's white
marble. The rose poem of her youth that
her marriage sang is far behind. Here is
my sadness: I compare these portraits, one
of a joy-radiant brow, the other care-
heavy: sunrise—and the thick coming on
of night. And yet how strange my ways appear,
for when I look at these faded lips my heart
smiles, but at the smiling girl my tears start |
