Sittin’ in the drive
your Grandmother’s voice comes to me on the wind
and my stomach crawls inside of itself.
To do lists and notes
fill this notebook next to poems:
mine, yours, more.
Bugs crawl, birds sing,
sweet late spring, early summer breeze.
She sits and reads search-a-words,
I breathe smoke in rings.
Halcyon days of the kingfisher.
Sharing stories of the home we share,
beans cornbread, fried chicken.
We grow the wings that fly us away from all worry,
surrounded by birds, sounding like chickens.
No eggs though.
I feel like the hummingbirds she tells me about;
she watches them all the Indian summer and Appalachian winter days.
No seasons tell the same stories
as they used to.
They tell of wind and rain, but never snow, just ice,
freezing the trees, now quiet and dead.