grandmother’s pond never moves
it’s alive, preserved inside her like a bubble.
an unknown aquifer, dreaming of us
no birds, no insects, no worms there
with a consistent season-less breeze
perpetually tousling the tangled grass,
her silver quivering hairs,
slow love rises from her porch perch
that chair rocks her into another time.
The Feather-fines hold the fences in place
a crown of thorns protects her herb garden,
she watches over those young, certain mountains
unaware of their Appalachian ancestors,
The Maple trees huddle, coveting their oldest memories
grandmother’s a stone, listening, under it all.
Nervous chewing college kids circle above her,
they think about this ancient perfect stillness,
this is her own the morning of the grandmother
her pond remains frozen glacier still,
her chair cradles the illness
we remember her well, the owl of the anonymous valley