for my grandmother
Her flowers, softly pressed against her palm,
have lost their quiet gift of sunlit breath
in lieu of gentle summer's song, this psalm
hushed now by looming mute of living death.
The owl's lonely mating cry rings out
against the fjord today, and still I find
her shorn cloth adorning my clouded route
home. Roughly textured skin of night confined
my skin; however, the small trestles built
from earth to hidden light behind the moon
guide me to her in sleep. Her petals lilt
toward my lap, hold me until the room
becomes a slowing top. They fall the way
she falls. The dark blends calmly into gray.