For Alisa
Her lovely head carries all the summer gold
And I follow her from room to room
The way one chases sunlight in winter.
She stops at the mirror and looks at us both
Through the sky of her eyes, which we know
Erupts in storms of tears that clear as quickly
As they arrive. She looks deep enough
Into me that I can read her on my own:
“I want you to see what I see,” she says.
The mirror memorizes our faces,
Mine ageing, hers framed by an endless
String of pony tails, pigtails and braids.