These half-formed thoughts trespass
on this moment in the cedar shade:
my daughter has determined to spend
her long summer among strangers,
yet a mother knows the world
is not kind and will not change.
When we look to each other
our eyes slide off sideways;
our words, hopeless dying things,
stringing out on the humid air,
not quite meeting either.
To leave now, to drive away
up the dirt camp road,
seeing her narrow back in the rearview,
is an impossibility which happens anyway.
I would will her my courage,
but she has no need of it
and I have none besides.