Granny in woollen cardigans, bespectacled,
smooth-cheeked, sitting at the stove end
of the kitchen table, stockings rolled down,
wanting the dog to lick the ulcers on her legs.
Cups of tea coming and going like seasons,
showers of sunlight canonizing her fitfully,
switching on the light of her soft white hair,
the wild rose that bloomed free in her face.
The comfortable plumpness of her body
always shaped to her generous curiosity;
her old voice gentle as seaweed on a wave,
chatting life back into the bones of the dead.
