my sunset
she’s covered in the primary colors found in rainbows
on the front porch
making a quilt
to match the sky for fun
black and grey curls
bless her forehead
she scratches her nose
where grandpa first kissed her
then pricks her finger
with that curved needle in the process
she laughs at the pain
exposing the depth of her wisdom
then one strand escapes
like wild thread near her birthmark
she wraps it in a frizzy bun
right above the nape of her neck
she can tie her hair and string up so quickly
faster than most braiders i know
i want her stories to slip through me that way
when sharing the secrets of her mother
crow’s-feet crowd the corners of her brown eyes
like poor people crowd altars in deep lines
she rocks in a noble chair in her golden years
she moves like the ocean waves back and forth
in between each tug she leans forward in peace
listening to what i’ve learned she smiles
her soul hums holy hymns daily
she’ll wink before she sinks into the earth forever
2 replies on “my sunset”
I hope someone will contact Venus Jones with my comment. I found this a stunning read, without literary conceits or pretension of any kind. Each heartfelt stanza unfolded effortlessly into the next. I related deeply to the love she expresses in the sixth stanza, having recently lost my own aged mother, and the embedded rhyme in the final line made my heart give a thump. Well done!
Dear Trish,
This is Venus Jones. I’m the author, and I recently lost my GRAND Mother. The grief reminded me of this poem and publication. I appreciate your kind words, and I agree the sixth stanza was already divinely given. My muse and I polished up the beginning a bit. Here’s a revised version below. Blessings to you and yours…Always.
MY SUNSET
She’s covered in primary colors found in rainbows.
On our front porch
she’s knitting a quilt.
to match the sky for fun.
Black and grey curls
bless her forehead.
She scratches her nose
where grandpa first kissed her.
Then pricks her finger
with that curved needle in the process.
She laughs at the pain
exposing the depth of her wisdom.
Then one strand escapes
like wild thread near her birthmark.
She wraps it in a frizzy bun,
right above the nape of her neck.
She can tie her hair and string up so quickly,
faster than most braiders I know.
I want her stories to slip through me that way,
when she’s sharing the secrets of her mother.
Crow’s-feet crowd the corners of her brown eyes,
like poor people crowd altars in deep lines.
She rocks in a noble chair in her golden years.
She moves like the ocean waves back and forth.
In between each tug, she leans forward in peace,
listening to what I’ve learned about loops and threads.
She smiles and hums…her soul hums holy hymns daily.
She’ll wink before she sinks into the earth forever.