Look！ A flash of orange along the river's edge——

    "oriole！" comes to your lips like instinct， then

    it's vanished——lost in the foliage¹，

    in all your head holds， getting on with the day.

    But not gone for good. There is that woman

    walks unseen beside you with her apron²

    pockets full.  Days later， or years， when you least

    seem to need it——reading Frost on the subway，

    singing over a candled cake——she'll reach

    into a pocket and hand you this intact

    moment——the river， the orange streak³ parting

    the willow⁴， and the "oriole！" that leapt

    to your lips.  Unnoticed， steadfast⁵， she gathers

    all this jumble⁶， sorts it， hands it back like

    prizes from Crackerjack.  She is your mother，

    who first said， "Look！ a robin⁷！" and pointed⁸，

    and there was a robin， because her own

    mother had said to her， "Look！" and pointed，

    and so on， back to the beginning： the mother，

    the child， and the world.  The damp bottom

    on one arm and pointing with the other：

    the peach tree， the small rocks in the shallows，

    the moon and the man in the moon.  So you keep on，

    seeing， forgetting， faithfully followed；

    and you yourself， unwitting， gaining weight，

    have thinned to invisibility， become

    that follower⁹.  Even now， your daughter

    doesn't see you at her elbow as she walks

    the beach.  There！ a gull¹⁰ dips to the Pacific，

    and she points and says to the baby， "Look！"