Twelve Sycamore

Edging the boundaries of life,
black pavement slowly dissolves  
into dirt roads, dusty farm towns.
 
Above me, horizons stretch
to eternity
A welcoming god brushed
against consciousness reveals  
a sheer fabric of shredded clouds  
woven into shapes reminiscent  
of childhood daydreams.
 
Days where the sun swallowed  
the sky,I hear the sound of Grandmother's voice  
that cradles my heart.
 
Faded blue farmhouse  
with its white framed windows  
stands proud beyond  
twelve Sycamores
 
The wind breathes,
a graceful rise, and fall  
of silent whispers escape clusters  
of leaves as they dance over  
a crooked stream
 
Stepping  onto  solid ground  
this surreal landscape, seems to be  
a mixing of dimensions,  
The solid clunk of my car door  
fractures the moment,  
shakes my existence
 
Fragrant Larkspur and Sweet William deliver me into a song,  a lullaby
 where behind closed eyes
Is Grandmother,  at her clothesline hanging damp white linen out to dry
 
Her tiny spun curls held tight
with bobby pins,  taming  
the strands that tend to fly away
 with her thoughts
She wears a hand sewn apron  
pressed and creased, adorned  
with wooden buttons each unique,  
of their own size,  attached in chaotic uniformity,  painted with the names  
of her grandchildren and music notes.
 
Shaking the wrinkles from flour sack dishtowels,  snap cracks the air  
bringing me back
to my present state of mind
 
On my knees before
Grandmother's headstone,
at the foot of 12 Sycamore  
that breathe her name,
through the silent whispers  
of the wind