never enough as she was

never enough as she was, as any of us were for her. mother in the slow river of stones. looking up at the black tint in the air. feeling the heaviness in the hour. how winter enters into each thing, diminishing it. forgetting the seconds that passed at her expense, that she had asked all the wrong questions. forgetting the opening and closing of the crocus. that she was there at all. not recalling how night drops, coils, bares its forked tongue. how she was helped in her field of complaint by those of us who tried and failed to love her. who didn’t breathe a word of this to her.