Sometimes, when the sky turns
pink, I walk through the oat grass
to where the ocean breathes
salty air.
It is there I see the curve of a woman’s
jaw–a slight crescent moon
shy in early morning sky, reflecting
from still tide pool.
My mirrored fingers reach
to my flushed lips, chin and cheek,
drawing my daughter’s face,
my mother’s too, over my own.
