Grannie

a poem about my grandmother, and farming, food and love.

That quiet storm,

my grandmother

is resilience on a wooden bench

somewhere in Poano,

anchored in the heart

of the Asante kingdom.

Her hands have fed many.

She knows the earth

the way I want to someday

because she had to

her husband, my grandfather,

even on his wooden death bed,

ate a feast from

her garden each night,

broke the bones of her lean chickens

between his teeth each night,

pulled the pepper flesh from kusiye,

caught that afternoon

within the folds of her ntoma,

and delivered to the soup pot.

He washed it all down with water

fetched from the river

balanced on my mother's little head,

washed it all down and said his farewells.

She sent him to the other side

with a full belly and a calm

heart.

Now that, is love.

A woman who plants a whole garden

to feed souls,

to nourish minds

to ease a fiery famine.

My love of soil, and full green gardens

comes from that woman's hands.