Monday, April 21, 2014

for my grandmother, on Pascha

Through the veil of departure,
in the last bells of evening,
I listen to the West wind
for the echo of your voice:

Take light from the light, my dear--
I can nearly feel the flame
of your smile, while nestling
carnations in a green vase.

Time is a crushed laurel leaf,
between the bitter and sweet.
Tears bubble to the surface,
passing memories of you...

Once, when we rode on the train
over the Nenana gorge,
cottonwood seeds were snowflakes
mocking the green of July.

Ruth McLean, farmer's daughter,
wistful lover of mountains,
in your arms was a homeland--
I dance this kolo for you--


bluestorm said...

May I join the circle, step into the rhythm? I smile.

My grandmother was named Velika (Велика, Great). On Easter (Великден) her name was celebrated also. Gratitude!

Iulia Flame said...

What a beautiful name, and thought! Let us dance, together, for Велика and for Ruth. My grandmother did not live to see any of her great-grandchildren.

I realize this is but a crushed leaf--but wished to mark the moment.

Yesterday, I was in the midst of several dancing circles, and I thought--how much my grandmother would have enjoyed it--

Gratitude to you, as well.

Tim Buck said...

This is a poem by an unusually gifted poet. An actual poet.

Iulia Flame said...

Oh, my! (Glancing around, to see if you might be addressing someone else around here.)--gratitude for such heady praise.

Let me not neglect to mention that I consider your body of work--actual poetry--I blow in respect to you, and then step sheepishly over to the window to see what my cat, a poet of movement and gesture, is stalking.

(for erin) when i ask, where have the redpolls gone, and why the silence at my seed station your eyes, unbidden twin candles startle ...

popular on this site