The toothless grin, and the acerbic warmth,
highly spirited and so wonderfully gruff,
sending many away with a flea in the ear,
a shock of white hair as though ruffled by the waves.
Yes, the waves that she had left behind
in her beloved homeland, Kashmir.
Yes the waves that rippled and roared,
and to their encore she listened in this far -flung place ,
glistening eyes, a picture of septuagenarian grace
raging intervals of amnesia , hallucination ,
chanting maledictions on that pheran clad cousin
who eavesdropped on their door when she and grandpa ,
whispered sweet- tidbits into each other’s ears.
my grandma was a Mary Oliver poem,
simple but majestic.
In her own world she lived, forgetful at times,
often humming those forgotten Kashmiri rhymes.
She sat on her cane chair,
perhaps watching gazelle Time
hopping, sprinting, galloping at a headlong pace,
diving deliriously, leaping,
plunging forward to win some race.
Ears riveted to those clear and fresh voices
ringing through the pristine air.
a lassitude settled over her frail body,
a sluggishness in that vibrant bloodstream,
and she disappeared
into a mist of memories.