You're my grandmother.

A statue at the sewing table.

There is nothing there

but the fabric of faded

womanhood;

your history is embedded deeply.

It's too late to make up for lost time.

Yet, I still mention your name

when I am writing sadness

across these walls.

Has what little joy

you kneaded into my

sides been torn away already?

You were my grandmother,

now swaying beneath the clouds

with skinny branches;

as though you were asking

for one last hug before you depart.