From the Spring 1996 edition of Cross Currents

Poetry / Measuring Darkness
by Mary Ann Samyn

Mountains are not, cannot
move like hands, their language
in their leaping or caress.

And though you have hands,
you are not hands either. No
leaping or caress, no tender

sweeping back of hair from my face.
Mother, you are the thing
I've seen for the last time, again

and again. Deep and persistent
ache. If God can be found
in any room, then He must be

in the cool, dark room of you,
the center of mountains, the palms
of your arthritic hands.

And in me, small room you made
and named, dark peak
of heart you cannot touch.