I don’t want to hear
 
another word of complaint,
 
Grandmother North Wind.

 
 

Hold me, Grandmother,
 
for the long night is coming—
 
summer slips away.

 
 
 

Autumn pilgrimage—
 
I visit my grandmother
 
in her weedy grave.

 
 
 

On bitter-cold nights,
 
my grandmother’s threadbare quilt
 
somehow keeps me warm.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
stories from my grandmothers
 
mingle with my tea.

Hand

 
 
 

in the nursing home
 
holding my grandmother’s hand—
 
the long night begins

Grave

 
 
 

first flowers of spring
 
pushing aside the chickweed
 
on grandmother’s grave

Shadows

 
 
 

laying down shadows
 
near my grandmother’s gravestone—
 
first full moon of spring

Broom

 
 
 

the first day of spring—
 
sweeping the mountain cabin
 
with grandmother’s broom

Nestling

 
 

grandmother’s couch day—
 
nestling among the cushions
 
books and tea at hand