You tell me to change
and then you tell me to stay the same.
Keep contredicting yourself, Mother;
I am free and you won't see
what has become of me.
I am the vagabond,
but what if I settled down?
Letters and photographs have no authority,
but you say, "Keep your bags packed."
Surrendering to you, I'd come undone.
Now I can't decide why I'm here.
Your musings of me
turning around in your sleep.
"Quit crying, my child,
dammit, quit crying!"
You comfort so well locked away;
when you can't see my face,
when you don't want to look.
Well it's in your face now.
The image of you as a Norse goddess,
the wind in a Viking sail;
not all has been lost.
But yet I think
it is you who have changed the most.
Who answers when you call,
"Come to me, my child"?

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