Young

In my imagination, my mother tells me how it began.

In my imagination
My mother tells me the story
Of how it began:
 
         my newborn eyes gazing at
         her young--sadly experienced--ones
         registering
         that this warmth who had held me
         so close, so long,
         was real
         near.
         i cried
         she cried
         and all our tears could not wash
         the love or the uncertainty
         from us.
 
In my imagination
She sits by my bed each night
And tells me the story
And we grow to understand
One another
And the moment
Is enough
To fill the subsequent
Lost years.
 
 
25 lines (with spaces, 27 lines).