by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling
Now that I cannot do it alone,
my tall son leads me
into the chilly waters of the bay
where I float above the jagged bottom
stroked by seaweed
rocked by ripples from the passing boats.
More than forty years ago
he lay in the saline waters of my womb
rocked by my rhythms
absorbed in becoming.
Now, he helps me out and seats me
on the sand.
“Look, Mom,” he says, “there’s a crab!”
He nudges it out of the water with my cane
and . . . surprise . . . there are two,
accomplishing life, as we have done.