At Strawberry Creek

from Out With Lanterns, a daily poetry practice

I sat writing on a park bench when
I wandered by with my daughters, ages two and five.
Time loops are rare, but not impossible. 
I recognized her, the me of sixteen years ago. 
I saw my blasting fatigue, the wild
color and energy of my daughters,
the depth of love, the joy, the blur, 
the seeming endlessness of it all. 
I saw so clearly how back then,
I did not consider sixteen years ahead, 
too busy chasing the toddler
so she didn’t fall down the dusty hill, 
or marveling how the pink tutu’s tulle
evaded dirt better than any other fabric. 
I didn’t have the luxury of pondering 
how time would not only loop but skip, 
race, cheat, and how so soon I would be
that older lady on the bench smiling,
hiding her tears with sunglasses.