in this narrow bite
of the year with the days
closing in on the sun
you sit counting the deaths
those now gone who walked the same track
you measure your children's fidelity
to the route-map you wanted for them
and your grandchildren how they shape
a language as foreign as trees to you
much simpler to count the years
though you'd rather not
but see her beauty
that one whose belly is growing
while you are knitting