Grandma Fran

A circular poem

Grandma Fran

The sunlight caressed her fair, soft skin

and highlighted her loose brown curls

just as it did in the waking hours of the morning

spent tending to the stalks of red rhubarb and mint shrubs.

Just as it did in the greenhouse,

picking out the most vibrant yellow marigolds.

Just as it did on the evening wagon rides 

to the neighborhood meadow.

Just as it did in the folding chair 

placed in the middle of the garden

when she could no longer fulfill her passion.

Just as it did laying in her bed,

unable to recognize, once familiar, names and faces.

But when the tumor took its final toll,

the sky went dark 

and wept for days on end.

But I like to think it was her,

watering her endless, dream garden in the clouds above, 

filled with lambs’ ears, crab apples, pansies, and bee-balms.

I like to think that up there,

the sunlight still caresses her fair, soft skin.