Trying to Pin Down the Sun

In British Columbia I watch my son, my daughter
stride away onto Capilano Suspension Bridge,
built of what seems, from my vantage point,
of kindling, string and raw faith,

it swings precariously over a gaping
canyon 250 feet below,
each step over its shaky planks
makes them sway over an endless abyss,
tightrope walkers with no safety net.

Surrounded by ancient rain forest
time spins me around, around,
as my children move so nimbly,
so swiftly over that vast emptiness,

stopping, they beckon me to them but
stark terror plants me, watching, waiting.

I wander then through an album
in my mind
where each small portrait
dissolves at my touch,
long suddenly to console myself,
eat memories made of honey and air.

My daughter, takes my face in her hands says,
“Don’t sing Mommy,
Mommy don’t sing,”
lullabies means bed time, separation.

My son calls from his
darkened room the same question
every night, before the very final kiss.
“Mommy, why do some people say
amen and some ahmen.”

My heart, silent spectator,
has plummeted into the gorge below
waiting to catch them should they fall,

yet all the while
the ventricles, the atria, even the skipped beats,
continue to keep their constant measure.