I am here, and
it feels like forever.
Still, seasons roll by
gray my hair
slow my gait.

I put on socks and shoes,
tie a neat knot, look up
at two framed photos.
Mom, Dad, a memory.
Shadow tones fall across
their youthful faces.

Unexpectedly, I catch
my reflection in a mirror.
Is that woman me?
My life slips away.
I imagine soaring mountains,
icy snow I seldom see.
I glimpse a snow leopard,
soft paws and fur of white.

My snow leopard passes
over a mountain, down
a ravine. She rests patiently
in the field before me.
Someday I will greet her

as I pass through light and
darkness. Now, each moment,
every breath, the morsels
of living—I am wholly
in their midst. 

Pamela Hammond was born in Chicago, grew up in Southern California, and now lives in Santa Monica. She earned a bachelor’s degree from UCLA and a master’s from California State University, Northridge. She has published two chapbooks, Encounters (2011) and Clearing (2012) through Red Berry Editions, Fairfax, Calif. Also, her work has appeared in many journals in the past two years, including Assisi, Tulane Review, Crack the Spine!, and Valparaiso Poetry Review.