September

by Krista Benjamin

Evening gray sifts through flesh-pink
clouds, fading light scattered
on the patio before the porch swing,
where I sit beside my mother
and grandmother, where we have lingered
at twilight other days.  Now
looking at their profiles, I see
the time-progressed sketch of my own:

same nose and blue eyes, the shape
of our face giving way to wrinkles,
chestnut hair thinning to white.
We are one woman

between facing mirrors.  We cannot see
around our body, past
where the tunnel
takes a turn, unknown
passageway for the train we await here

on the patio.  We talk of memories,
the breeze, the birch leaves
turning colors of a sunset.

Some must have boarded, or will,
ahead of their mothers, and some together,
but as far back as we can see
each of us has gone in order, each
taking the place of the last.