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?