In the Fall from Issue 7
Even now when the long white hair
frays on soft pillows
my grandmother does not believe
in leaves falling, abandoning trees.
From her bed she watches
the slow inundation of browns.
Her sad arms turn into brooms. They sweep.
When letters from the children arrive
speaking of holidays to come
she folds them neatly on her lap
goes to the window and lets them flow
into the ochres of the afternoon.