And I think about my grandmother,
her weathered hands with deliberate strokes.
Maroon and purple flowers,
dead grasses crunch under the hairs of the brush,
decaying branches grasp toward the vast blue.

A rustic fence separates the decaying foreground
from the wet mountains one day I will reach

The background in my close distance
but her shaking hands glide over
easily navigating the rocky terrain
with ashen color, to touch
the tops of the mountains that tease the sky

She will paint her way to the clouds
alone her brush will travel
creating every stroke along the way.