Had you been able to see your mother
when she was young and slim and loved to dance
you would not be so swift to dismiss her.
She swayed then with that charming elegance
that only young women command, that grace
of figure and motion that makes young men
forget that all grow old, that all replace
their parents, then yield earth to their children.
In those brief moments of dance, when her dress
would cling to her here, and swirl from her there,
she became beauty itself: pure, changeless,
and ecstatic. Though time made her austere,
and age slowed her, young men would once opine,
I wish I were the shadows on her skin.