My Grandmother
Knew the sacred nature of her place
A scrap of mountain above Cane River, on Big Creek,
the blue ridge a bowl above the barns
I remember holding a hand-full of her skirt to keep up,
hunting creasy on a February morning
our breath like the smoke of campfires
air uncurling in the tiny valley, snaking
its slow way up the hills
almost visible
Much of my grandmother’s life was like that, almost visible
We walked together
I was proud to be with her, knowing her importance
She pointed out the sacred places
Among the rocks and pathways, under stone and by water
The trees of worth
The shy creatures of air and earth and sky
She let me see they
Meant no harm
Had their own ways
And business to perform
We sat at the top of things
Before the biscuit bag was opened
Together, looking down at her valley
My hand in her lap
Mist rising in prayer-tatters
Above the silver shining river
box turtle road 