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