The persons we are when we are young are probably buried somewhere within us when we\u2019ve grown old. Denise Low, who was the Kansas poet laureate, takes a look at a younger version of herself in this telling poem.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Two Gates<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/p>\n I look through glass and see a young woman<\/p>\n<\/p>\n of twenty, washing dishes, and the window<\/p>\n<\/p>\n turns into a painting. She is myself thirty years ago.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n She holds the same blue bowls and brass teapot<\/p>\n<\/p>\n I still own. I see her outline against lamplight;<\/p>\n<\/p>\n she knows only her side of the pane. The porch<\/p>\n<\/p>\n where I stand is empty. Sunlight fades. I hear<\/p>\n<\/p>\n water run in the sink as she lowers her head,<\/p>\n<\/p>\n blind to the future. She does not imagine I exist.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n I step forward for a better look and she dissolves<\/p>\n<\/p>\n into lumber and paint. A gate I passed through<\/p>\n<\/p>\n to the next life loses shape. Once more I stand<\/p>\n<\/p>\n squared into the present, among maple trees<\/p>\n<\/p>\n and scissor-tailed birds, in a garden, almost<\/p>\n<\/p>\n a mother to that faint, distant woman.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/p>\n<\/p>\n