The Grandmother

her hands were never idle, the grandmother's
they busied themselves with housework
gardening,cleaning, cooking the best food ever
on a woodstove in a big cast iron frying pan
I can remember the delicious flavor of
her cornbread, apple and sweet potato pies

those were the good old days with her
her hands were never idle, she delighted
in working in her flower garden, a lush
mixture of flowers and medicinal herbs
she knew all the names of every plant
every tree and even the names of weeds

I never saw her just sit down to rest
there were peas or beans to shell
or a crochet needle quickly shaping yarn
into cotton doilies or wool afghans
sometimes a Bible, (always King James)
occupied her withered hands and sharp mind

not one childish bruise or scrape or fear
went unnoticed with the grandmother
who had a soft voice and an ample lap
she used freely to soothe all hurts
her delight was to hold grandchildren
and rock many a fretful baby to sleep

she is so often the star of my memories
now I am the grandmother with hands
never idle, writing, painting, crocheting
they remind me of my grandmother's hands
long, slender fingers, they've been called
aristocratic, now not as supple as before

decades have passed since she left us
but her example and influence still abide
It feels so surreal and yet fitting
that I am the grandmother now
but I have no little ones to soothe
and my arms ache for babies to rock