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.
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.