Seasons change
And the waters of the rivers rush
On and on and on and on
Some days as angry as thunder,
Or as fast as lightning.
But other seasons,
When the water slows,
It takes its time going where it goes,
On and on and on and on,
As slow as the clouds in a blue sky.

One day
my hands will look like my mother’s—
and I wonder
if I’ll ever notice
the progression.

My daughter
will place her hand beside mine,
comparing landscapes
as though the veins and wrinkles
etched across my palms
were foreign elements,
strange and distant.

When the years
have piled high,
and I can finally say
I’ve been old
far longer than I was young,

perhaps I too
will place my hand beside
my granddaughter’s—
and study the difference
like a language
I was once fluent in.