The Gate

xxxxxfor my mother

Once I saw her walking in the evening through the field
near Allens Pond her hair the color of salt hay
arms thin and brown swinging at her sides as if she knew
where she was going and what called her
only later that same summer when the dahlias had come up
fast blooming all of a moment as they do
I realized she was gone from me
across that field through the unpainted gate
that swung inward
she was gone and the hay had been kicked over
spread to sun and the swallows, their nesting done,
flew wild over the marshes weaving things unseen
through smooth wet light
their wings like blades to the sky
while down below the pond lay still
skinned back at the end of day to its own
bone-lit darkness
I could just see her footsteps
still left in the grass
hollow places
where her soft weight had pushed down