In Chicago
a yellow
room
high up
far away
far ahead
far ahead
housed
my
grandmother’s pot.
My
grandmother couldn’t
climb stairs
or eat
chocolate
or drive a
car
or take
salt
she read
books
sewed by
hand
attended
concerts
and
Hadassah
if they met
on the
ground floor
yet late in life
she started making pots
I was far
away
and never
saw one
until that
night
when I held one
cradled it
like a buttercup
like a buttercup
in the palm
of my hand
as if it
were fragile
like a
buttercup
still, it
will,
it has endured
reached heights
my
grandmother could never climb
and speaks
about the beauty
she saw
from a
distance.
Lovely Sara. Grandmothers are so important.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Susan. High praise indeed, coming from you.
Deleteprecious fragility
ReplyDeletethis is so lovely, thank you
ReplyDelete