The Constant Generation
By Lael W. Hill
My father and my mother see
Still, the child I used to be –
And cannot quite admit that now
The twig they bent is equal bough.
My children, willow-lithe, behold
In me a full shade, heavy, old;
To tell the green years I, too, crossed
Is leaf on lost leaf laid and lost.
Between these young, those old, I stand,
My roots in theirs twined strand with strand,
And know – whatever time falls by –
I was … I shall be … I am … I.