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Northern Grandmother
For Suzanne
I wept when I grew
out of the tiny window-sill
I slept in. In your little library
under the dusty study where
the books sung me to sleep
and the sun stung me awake.
I blossomed when I ran, barefoot,
in the garden you raised in place
of an infant. I learned with the peach-tree,
planted close to the tulips, at the same speed
as we both became more gaunt and pale
from the cold winter snow, we thawed.
I softened when the shiny Montana
cherries winked in flaring sunny buckets,
when the rugged sourdough bread and unyielding
cheddar became breakfast,
when the baby tomatoes, protected by
garden snakes alone, ripened.
I learned when I sat in the window seat, cushioned
by self-tailored pillows and old newspapers. Saw white
and stained photos of pigtails and red wine in green
glasses. Cigars in cars where my flashy
blue eyes came from.
I remembered when you showed me, the second
time. Through your half-blind
eyes, you made me miss vain and swaying
pine trees. You painted,
and I pretended.
I kept my elbows off
the table and tried to keep
eye contact. I nodded, with my head some
where else, like your own son.
I didn’t understand how soon I would be alone without
your stories: of war and of Fuji apples,
Tibet and the Dalai Lama.
And we were quiet For the last time.
Silence was fleeting and the sky
was warm. We drank the radio
and the sun, and we did
not look at one another.
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