To Mom, From Korea, On Her 60th Birthday

She:
a collection of stories.
The fox who stole the cookied man
and mouse who played the violin.
The tortise/hare she said "My son,
have a thick shell, and steady pace.
Life is not a thing you win
by racing through."

Time:
would find us both
on the opposite banks
of an ocean, waving, but still she would
reach the other side, after all
the peices, floating, smallest, insignificant.
The pretty ones who never noticed.
"A bleeding heart and waterproof skin," she said.
"Time and her aged toothless grin
will make lovers of us all before we end."

She:
A collection of the peices smallest,
greying hair and wrinkled eyes,
the very corner of what love had done.
Undone- the dishes, taxes, laundry.
Every compounding expense of time
for which there was no interest.
And the test came back, it was
positive, but so was she,
that life is not a thing you win
unless you're willing to give it up.