Waiting for Mother

Glenn Lyvers

I die a little every 182 minutes,
waiting, watching her pass by
with so much life inside –
bone-white against a teal sky,

mothership in orbit. She,

no bigger than a grain of rice
from my buglike perspective –
standing on an ancient glacier,
a wind-swept ice-blue river
of brittle frozen crystals,
looking up – still waiting.
Last night, I felt the darkness stir,
timeworn and pregnant with fear;
I am here, restless in the stillness,
look down, mother – look down.