lillian the home poet

The glass is clean today
and we are quiet on either side.
One hand at rest,
age lines etched in black skin
fingers curled.

Mom sits closely by, always watching.
Her babe with impish chatter,
swings away
quickly scampers home
safely tucked inside those long warm arms.

You sit, eyes not meeting mine,
lips pursed, a sadness to your face.
Which of us, in this family,
is behind the glass,
and which of us in front?

Where does this zoo begin,
and where does it really end?

Photos from our visit last year to San Diego Zoo.  Post in response to Daily Post Photo Challenge: Connected.