Beyond the fields edge her stare locks
where road swims from creek and rocks
and finally is a road.
Mesmerized by country air
the cornbread burns black skillets
another coat of burnt,
With Grandma hidden somewhere in thoughts,
while porch boards dance the rockin' chair waltz.

But Grandpa was a dancer too,
nothing fancy, no soft shoe.
He danced the clod-hop.
His partner always the goose neck hoe
up and down they'd always go,
row by row and do-si-do,
they danced the unsunned sky of morning so,
at noon he could take an hours long nap
with the goose neck hoe rested in his lap.
Then doctors came with such grave warnings, to rest the goose neck in the
mornings. Take up another dance, they said. Or soon old man...............

So with sky leaned against mountains hair
Grandma canned the corn-silk air
in wrinkled prune like lungs, and listened:
such youthful noises the barnyards make,
like oint and mooo and cock-a-doodle-do
and Grandma almost smiled at such foolish
youthful thoughts,
instead, brushed brittle hair back,
straightened the collar of her gingham sack
and began the rockin' chair waltz.

And again beyound the fields edge there
Grandma locked her moistened stare
on a mound of earth that was left to show
a grave marked only by a goose neck hoe.

Poetry Magazine