Rocking Moon

For everyone who has to grow old.

Grandma is rocking in her chair,

like a goddess on the crescent moon

sprinkling down Autumn

for a harvest.

 

And he comes;

with October in one hand

and a pocket watch in the other.

"I'm early," he says

and sets his hat on the coffee table.

The Universe is hiding inside his fedora

 but Grandma is careful not to look.

 

"The kettle is on the stove,"

she tells him  from her rocking moon,

"if you'd like a quick cup." 

The gray-white wisps of her hair

wrap up the stars of the window behind her

into beds of cumulonimbus.

 

He folds up Grandma in his eyes,

 a shade just darker than Forever,

and holds her there

like she hasn't been held in years:

With a warm, patient love

that understands the inconvenience of age,

and gives up the egoism of beauty

to get the names of every laugh and tear or shout

that carved those "ugly" wrinkles

into her face.

 

When he moves across the carpet,

kicking up the dust of  mountains

and the sand of deserts,

he goes slowly

because, really, he's older than she is.

 

Long fingered artists

at the end of his arms,

pick up the teapot.

They are calloused and burned,

with black and silver comet flakes

trapped under the fingernails,

because he works nine hours a day

reshaping creation

so that it still fits into it's cradle.

 

He pours two cups

and flavors them with the breeze of his breath.

Grandma sips the tea from underneath the reflection

of his handsome face and asks

"Is there time?"

He answers,

"If there isn't, I'll make a little extra."

 

A skein of black wool in Grandma's lap,

pierced with silver needles,

weighs her down with the graceful lump of an unfinished sock.

Isn't that like life? she thinks.

Unfinished Socks.  

 

They drink together

and listen to the silence of a king sized mattress

 that is always cold on one side

and a patient telephone

 that rings once a week  on Fridays at two-thirty.

Outside the mailbox stands sentinel at the end

of the driveway. Empty mouth wide open,

like a scream, or a challenge;

an argument, that the postman gave up on long ago.

And the rose bushes, which don't bloom anymore,

stand at the mailbox's back.

 

"I'm done." Grandma's voice is

crackled leaves and knuckles,

Fall wind.

She puts her feet flat against the rug

and stops the moon from rocking.

 

He stands up and puts his hat back on

so the Universe trickles around his ears

like a busted egg.

Grandma smiles toothlessly at him

when he embraces her out of the world.

He makes her all the promises she's heard before

and puts her to sleep in the brim of his fedora.

 

He leaves her bag of bones

and the empty tea cups

behind.

 

At two thirty the phone yells itself hoarse

and feels rejected when the dead don't answer.

The bed turns over, cold.

The roses gave up the summer no one came to trim.

The mailbox keeps shouting though,

having no way of knowing what has happened

inside.

 

Grandma's children come.

They don't have the presence of mind to wonder

whom she was having tea with.  

And the cups catch the salty water

of their hysteria;

which only proves that they didn't understand her.

He'll come back for that later,

use it to refill the sea.

Reviews

[KL]

I've never read anything like this. You told a story here, effortlessly weaving poetics and narrative into one shining flowing piece. You have so many memorable lines and images that it's impossible to pick out one. This is going in my library so I can read it again... I think there's multiple angles to interpret this from. Well done.

[Sonia]

Amazing! I really am at a loss for words

[David W Moore III]

fantastical story of death as a kind old man, kinder than any we know. and growing old is much better than the alternative.

[Kesha]

This poem makes death sound like... hmmm a beauty in the wind? death inside is as heavenly as we make it, I love this poem! I am glad I read it! :) Keep it up! :)

[Brad]

this peice took me aback, a wonderful write filled with both philosophical candor and surrealism...it was pure magic

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

I have no words only admiration~adoration for the delicate weaving and gorgeous tilt of frame into the surreal palms of eternal songs~

[Aven]

death is just another stage in life, we all have to venture over the edge of the world, and you made it beautiful. :)

[JelliFyshKissUs]

You pen fills age and maturity with majestic wonder. What heavenly images of a setting we all take for granted. I have never seen such beauty in the gray-headedness of our elders. A cosmos of elegance.

[Ed Hart]

what a wonderful write

[luciddreamer]

This writing moved me beyond belief........
Peace
Robin