Grandmother

                for Graziela Zoda

What is the purpose of visits to me twice since you’ve
        died?

Downstairs near a woodstove I hear you
in motion, always working,
a long silken dress—
tight sleeves at your wrist, soft above the elbow
wide top at your shoulder for free movement.

When we were young you didn’t visit—
you never baked a cake that I remember
or babysat or held me in your lap.
you were in the men’s part of town running a man’s
        business
calling the world to order,
seven children behind you
raised singlehandedly in your large house. You were
moving, always moving.

When I kept losing things like my parents,
        my children, money
my time and health
why did you appear in my room with gifts painted
red, yellow, blue,
brilliant colored toys. What
essential fact did you want me to know,
that the body is the essence of spirit and so
must be in motion?

Now that I’ve lost my foothold, my direction, my way,
what is your message, strong spirit,
strong Grandmother,
what is the meaning of your dream-present,
a bright clock shaped like a train—
                        simply that it moves?