Aw jeez, Ma, I miss ya somethin' terrible.Was There a Poem?
In her dark hands that milked cows and made lace,
hands that fixed tractors and wiped tears?
A poem in the dark hands
that built houses and kept them, that worked the earth
and folded to a heaven she was sure of?
Hands that hammered out justice and
handed out calloused caresses,
those hands that labored at the piano,
but changed flat tires with ease?
Was there a song in her dark eyes
that laughed easy, but cried hard;
eyes that saw good wherever it hid?
Eyes that struggled in darkness
to read the verses and read them again
until she saw light in the words?
A song in the dark eyes that bid me welcome,
the colorless eyes that I bid goodbye?
Was there a portrait in her dark face?
- Ralph Murre
(appeared in Crude Red Boat, from Cross+Roads Press)
1 comment:
I miss her, too, Uncle Ralph. Chickie and I were just saying that we'd give anything to have one more lunch in her kitchen. Sitting in the dappled sunshine at the round table in the sawdust and wool scented house, eating bland meat and overcooked vegetables, just being with Grandma. She was incredible. And, you are incredible. Thanks writing the poem. -- Steph
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