Prayer

When I look out of this upstairs window I notice my mother
Walking out—actually reeling slightly by now in her old age with
Her pure white hair beneath the twin colonnades of fading palm fronds,
A homemade sail. She tacks slowly as a boat in a light wind, from one side
Of the gravel driveway to the other, & I could almost believe
The scene is Mediterranean, for there are still two unshattered, antique
French teacups on this sill, but my mother has no rudder, no keel,
And no idea of how far out at sea she is. She is just going out
To get the mail—which is at the end of a half-mile walk through
Palms, cypresses, & orange trees. In Italy, outside the little hill towns
Such as Montone, a row of cypresses always meant a cemetery
And the resurrection of the dead. This is the San Joaquin Valley & they
Don’t mean anything here—though my father is dead, & though my wife & son live
East of two mountain ranges, & out of my hearing. She knows it’s too late for this,
And possibly she even knows she is about to vanish soon
And leave only the palms behind her. No one’s home, & still
My mother is determined to get this ounce of exercise, this walk. She is,
I think, almost as friendless at this moment as I am friendless.
From the way she lists, I even suspect that she must be part wind
Herself by now. And now I notice that the faded khaki of the palm fronds
Above her is the exact shade of my father’s shirts, & by now
I am remembering her hair against his chest on the day he had to go
Into the hospital. He had to go somewhere because he had to die
Of Parkinson’s disease—something he accomplished with difficulty
And without his usual contempt for style. Though he was always & at once humble &
Uncompromised before others. Even such as You. Though You must remember him
At least as well as I do. Think hard, Lord, because I love
The way she weaves from one side of this driveway to the other.
I love her simple determination to continue. And I keep watching her
Weave this way slowly & then that way until I think I might even be able
To save my own son from this final disorder of loss. I know
That everything I look out upon will vanish, & I know it is only
The simple juxtaposition of two colors—her white hair against
The dead, fading, & blankly swaying palm fronds. But I have
Always been astonished at any sort of permanence, & so, Thank You.
Before everything I look out upon has vanished: Thank You.

This is drawn from “Swirl & Vortex: Collected Poems of Larry Levis.”