Here's a poem I was inspired to write while here in Sweden (where I visit; I do not live here. I do not live anywhere, really. I am a squatter in my own life).I'm going to be sending this off to a publisher who is looking for writing relevant to older people. In SwedenYou tell me in the voice that undulatesgreen and solid as the Stone Age hills of your mother's birth: We must cross the graveyard to reach mother's house.And so we gopicking our way through the mouldering autumn headstones.September the 30th. Her birthday: 91. The first cake of green sugar icingchosen one spring day long ago when she still smiledlight as air. You tell me, in a voice fallinglike cool dew on the morning fields of your mother's childhood:The best cakes come from this konditori, no other.And so we gosearching for the perfect cake.The princess cake of wishesone brief candle added, an afterthoughther youth told in the fanciful marzipan shellthe inner layer of cream soft and sweet and whitelight as air.You tell me in the booming voice ofthunder rolling off the golden summer wheat of your mother's womanhood: Each week we take mother to visit father's grave.And so we gomarvelling at the age of the dead.The men lie flatYour sister digs a tumulus for flowersstamens shriveled brown and wastedtheir once-thick waxy excrescence a memoryheavy as earth. You tell mein the harsh voice of the cawing blackbirds flying to their nighttime roost over your motherís house:In Sweden, we feel longing. The lone pink icing rose Summerís last warm exhalation Dangles tight-budded from the autumn-cold yellowed stone of your motherís house Frail shield, face to winter.