Stanzas for Gramma

Working in the flowers
in the bright Dakota sun,
she would wile away the hours
waiting forward kingdom come.

In every nook and cranny,
she had little aches and pains:
a wiry kind of granny
armed with ear aid and a cane.

But she was a merry widow,
her abuser long since dead.
She confided to me, "Kiddo,
love is never made of dread."

She showed me yellowed pictures
from fifty years into the past;
I was my granddad without whiskers,
a genetic shadow he had cast.

So Gramma watched for signs of temper
and a tendency to dream,
looking for a chance to censure
her grandson for who he "seems"

I stayed in my grandma's cellar
when i was working on the farm,
fantasizing about fellers
while the snakes did me no harm.

Comes morning she would call me
for hot oat meal in July
then her criticism stalled me
as she looked me in the eye.

Her tongue was barbed but subtle
inferring I was less a man;
left no room for a rebuttal
and no place for me to stand.

So I escaped her breakfast table,
joined my cousins on my horse.
I was hardly feeling stable:
craving love/receiving force.

A year of fearless living
and news came she had died
We saddled up the horses,
rode through twilight while we cried.