The Appearance

I see my face in unexpected surfaces. Tabletops
in restaurants, that painting you keep
on the far wall. By turns I fall out and in with it.
Reminding me, as it does, of age and my mother.
Surprising me with my own thoughts of love
and recklessness; how often both amount
to nothing. Today it appeared by the field:
the day’s work done, sun resting
before its long descent into night and the fodder
for too quick dreams, forgotten pillow talk.
And I am tired. Tired of vigilance and silence.
Tired of my own damn face that keeps turning up
wanting acknowledgement for nothing greater
than persistence and that stubborn wish to be home.