Standing by windows watching seasons
I see my grandmother and my mother
in the dark behind the glass but it is me.
Autumn leaves and the green of May –
same trees, but nothing stays the same;
time has the last say on every subject.
When guests stay for dinner,
after a while their jokes become old,
they push over wine glasses.
Time, an unwanted guest, an idiot
who crawls in memories as if it is a hole,
makes a nest of reality and messes it up.
Behind the dark windows stands
always the Reaper, with the face of my mother.
I have become her. Time has taken me over.