And, after
all,
If
they don't look like mine, do mine?
You wake up, some fine morning, old.
And old means changed; changed means you wake up new.
In
this house, after all, we're not all mothers:
I'm not, my son't not, and the fir tree's not;
And I said the maid was, really I don't know.
The fir tree stands there on its cold
White hill of gifts, white, cold,
And yet really it's green; it's evergreen.
Who knows, who knows?
I'll say to my wife, in the morning:
"You're not like my mother ... You're no mother";
And my wife will say to me-she'll say to me-
At first, of course, she may say to me: "You're dreaming"–
But later on, who knows?
Randall Jarrell
