She’s covered in primary colors found in rainbows.
On our front porch
she’s knitting a quilt.
to match the sky for fun.
Black and grey curls
bless her forehead.
She scratches her nose
where grandpa first kissed her.
Then pricks her finger
with that curved needle in the process.
She laughs at the pain
exposing the depth of her wisdom.
Then one strand escapes
like wild thread near her birthmark.
She wraps it in a frizzy bun,
right above the nape of her neck.
She can tie her hair and string up so quickly,
faster than most braiders I know.
I want her stories to slip through me that way,
when she’s sharing the secrets of her mother.
Crow’s-feet crowd the corners of her brown eyes,
like poor people crowd altars in deep lines.
She rocks in a noble chair in her golden years.
She moves like the ocean waves back and forth.
In between each tug, she leans forward in peace,
listening to what I’ve learned about loops and threads.
She smiles and hums…her soul hums holy hymns daily.
She’ll wink before she sinks into the earth forever.
~In 2015 this poem was published in the online publication Literary Mama. With the passing of my Grand Mother who we laid to rest the day before my birthday this poem came to mind.
I wanted to share it with you.
Leave A Comment