Grandmother at 89

Grandmother at 89

You with curls the color of whipped cream

Your face, soft cotton creased by age the length of tall pine

Tall pine with a bend in your spine

five feet of you a baby kangaroo jumping in purple thistle

You with eyes that melt meanness out of young dogs

and children

you with eyes that offer full cups of soup

and eyes that dress people in love

with twine that is loose, with twine that is not knotted

You with arms the length of nursery rhymes

and hands the color of light oak

that shake with generosity and kindness

with a stomach of a flattened beach ball

rubber in all the right places

thighs the strength of ducks

and legs that walk supermarkets in tiny shoes of blue

You with a mind of crossword puzzles

with a mind that erases the wrongs of others

to return to the arms of nursery rhymes and loose eyes of twine

You with the heart of a llama

with the heart of grandfather

the day he threw the first ball to the boys

with a heart that brings the sun to the front porch

and the moon as still as a dried tear on your palm

And you the gardener,

who weeds out the coolness in me

allowing my heat to move

in a world that will be a bit less when you are gone

and then a bit more when I remember the fire you gave me

from your hands that shake

falling petals

falling in the light wind on a day of red sunsets