Grandmother

She said, from her adirondack chair,

on the porch of the old cabin

in the steep dry valley

she preferred the stones and boulders

to the trees and shrubs and structures

they would be the only things left

when the fire came to take the forest

the crows watching agape

When she was a child

to prove her strength

she jumped from a ledge

to a tree trunk below

She gave the bark like a bear hug

and gravity dragged her downward

grating her calves and thighs

and arms and chest

and she was pleased.

She told me, “when you die

nothing happens.”

And she told me,

“don’t forget me.”