When you are Thirty,
the people who have left you
still remind you of the face there now.
You are yourself— but kinder
(still try too hard to be profound).
And people still can reach you.
And maybe now you can understand.

You are the same, but different;
The lilac of this year,
remembers its half self in the ground.
And a father’s ghost or a mother
who wanted wanting
might brush up on you.
And you love imperfectly, like them.
And I didn’t realize how hard it was
to push farther.