like my big-armed
grandmother,
seated in her chair,
scanning all her children,
remembering the days she kept
their faces neat, their chicken fried,
bandaging their cuts, and ushering them through the forever dark,
attending ceremonies and graduations on finding
It’s a boy or a girl
who has her eyes and that same mouth, sure
and full of teeth.
And just like leaves,
she’s given her green.
She smiles orange
and yellow now,
speckles of red.
Always brown.
Only a few more days for the spectator to notice
before she drops
from the highest branch,
and tree
gives way
in winter.
