Day of the Dead: Great Gramma Berry
You brushed off a fallen tombstone
with the side of a gnarled hand.
Needles, twigs, and branches in a tiny blaze
to warm the autumn afternoon,
a tin of beans to warm our bellies,
a lesson in woodscraft, hedonism, and heresy.
My fingers brush polished pink granite.
I break out my thermos. The steam billows up.
My nose is running, my eyes are watering.
It’s the cold. It’s been eighteen years.
But there’s a doe standing
where the graveyard fades into the woods,
and you would have loved the way she watches you a minute
and goes back to eating.
(c) Sarah Morehouse 2008
