Grandmother; Leaving

On this emerald isle of every shade

Of green and blue beyond, I’m

Thinking of aged textured hands

In mine; wisdom’s fingers pulling away.

Nothing to tie to now but memories:

A looking glass’ reach, the air palpable

As cotton, sea through her hair,

Something left and returned to, her blue

Scarf elegantly draped, a clock’s key found

In ashes. Heat-fused silver, touching the

Mouths of family, each voice drifting

Into words that are merely sounds now.

We know what they mean, these vowels

Stretching out across years. We hang on

Every muttered, unintelligible consonant.

Even her breath, when it catches, is beautiful.

Days slow as night quickens forward while

We wait for a generation to pass into white.

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2 thoughts on “Grandmother; Leaving

  1. Trying to recreate absent love ones through our senses against the immutable water, air and earth–the textures, colors and sounds–such a human experience we can all relate. Beautiful.

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