Who Grandma Was


She was for me
the sainted woods, flush mountains,
an exodus through chilly criks
her blood made
to my blood.
 
She was for me
the rough road, the unknowing curve
and the dangerous angle
of becoming me,
spitting out the gravel dust.
 
She was for me
the crush of candy, the scan of eyes,
basements of love
unattended, undispersed,
spilling and refilling.
 
She was for me
the steeple bell that mountains make
to ring again, a roaring
that we hear anew and glory in 
the sound of what is gone.


April 15, 2002