Wolvendael Park

I am walking through Wolvandael Park.

I wonder, how much is me

and how much is other?

This is the park of my motherhood,

my park of conkers,

of endless hours.

And this may be the last winter

I walk through this park.

My children have grown like wildfire,

like wild flowers,

like there's no tomorrow.

Soon they will go to a new school.

So soon.

They won't need me to go with them.

How then will I ever get back

to Wolvendael Park?

Already the birds are singing.

It is early, an early spring.

After all this time I still can't tell

a blackbird's lament

from a robin's.