My grandmother is Summer.
She is raspberries and Chicadees
And hardy ‘Explorer’ roses.
She is in the wind and the sun and the smell of dirt,
Sitting on the front porch.
My grandmother is rows of potatoes, and sweet peas,
She is pansies, blueberries, leather moccasins,
I see her when I put the camera up to my eye,
When I work with my hands.
When I sit and look out
Over the untamed woolly prairie grass.
My Grandmother is summer.
(Liz got me thinking about this. Her grandmother is spring. Thanks, Liz.)