Going Around Again




Who can we be,
we who are born in these bodies,
grown from seed to
sapling to tree?

Who can we be,
we who keep turning into
something else, yet never change—
always our selves?

Who can we be,
as the clock rolls around,
as this year’s mystery stares back
from the bathroom mirror?

The morning comes again —
when Mother completed her labors,
her heart asking
your bright open eyes —
 
Who can he be?
Who in the world
will he be?