Grand Mother had white silver hair which lay upon her back,
A braid that grew thin when it was the end of her keeping,
She sat quiet mostly when we all came to visit her,
Not sure who each everyone belongs to anymore,
Yet, still she smiles and the light in her eyes is not gone,
Like the flower greeting cards she tapes to the hallway arch,
Since her stroke, now we are the only garden she has known,
She has been gone now for more than 30 years and we still,
Say her name, pretend she just stepped out into that garden,
There will come a day we will be blessed with her again.
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved
Winter words have been elusive lots … jumbled time tumbling bronzed locks … tethering heartbeats to your memory … bell ship bound in some sunken grave of grey ground … and feather down dullard dreaming cartilage cast spinning on the ice … frozen fronds waiting for the spring thaw … like ancient love letters tucked in the cracks of a wishing wall … to return to the dust you blew through those hollow haunts … I kept the wine from freezing between my thighs … though they were rosy enough in the beginning with out currants and lavender to share their spice … it will be a good year to uncork the secrets we stained so many a moment with … let the butterflies drink all they will and carry you away on drunken wings … that sad or silken sorrows shall visit no more the cobwebs or the broom.