Grannie Tucker Age 19
In the house of the grandmother
blue light softens, then settles the corners
of a child’s fitful sleep.

Ivy climbs two stories, merging
with turn-of-the-century red brick.

In her garden fields beyond window’s view
she speaks to every seed unhurried
bringing more than food to the table.

In the child’s eye there is no hourglass
or globe to drop beyond this horizon.
Blue light persists in the house
of the grandmother.

Last leaves on apple trees
break loose outside her window,
how sudden to grow wings.

She calls the child to come at once
not miss how leaves form perfect Vs
that do not flutter or sing,
how the green chorus lightens instantly
the winter skies.

When the first signs of sorrow appear
she does not rush to tamp the wounding

but asks with her heart
where most does it hurt.


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