Original Poetry

#1
I'll start. I wrote this one early this morning.
--

"Grandma"


Where is she?
Where is she now?
The one from my childhood
Who saw me.

How can she?
How can she create
The presence of the gentle past
As if I possess it,
Am honored by it,
And charged as it’s steward.

She never demanded
A thing from me.
Not to listen
Not to eat
Not to make myself
Into anything

Yet from this love
I want to become who I am,
Eat her food,
And hear her accidental wisdom.