Baboushka's Dim Recall

Resting hoary head upon wrinkled hands
she stares at parlor adornment,
a print picture hung on yellow wall.

The wall paper loosens.
Oh, Babouska, cover the mirrors.
You have aged so fast.

In the print, a stream halves autumn woods
from which mist rises. Ruins in the mist or maybe not;
perchance a bank of slate on water's edge.

Through virginhood, I stared at the print,
something about the woods,
something about the stream and the mist.

I sensed something of Baboushka hidden
in the print's mist, in the print's ruins
or in the slate on the waters' edge.